3  1822  01715  1663 


JN  VERS  TY  OF  CAL  FORNIA   SAN  DIEGO 


Central  University  Library 

University  of  California,  San  Diego 
Please  Note:  This  item  is  subject  to  recall. 

Date  Due 


FEB 1  6  1994 


MAR  1  6  1994 


Cl  39  (7/93) 


UCSD  Lib. 


THE  COQUETTE; 


OR,  THE 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  ELIZA  WHARTON. 


A  NOVEL.  FOUNDED  ON  FACT. 


BY  MRS.  HANNAH  FOSTER. 

WIFE   OF   KEY.   JOHN   FOSTER,   OF   BRIGHTON,    AND   DAUGHTER 
OF  GRANT  WEBSTER,   OF  BOSTON. 


WITH  AN  HISTORICAL  PREFACE, 

AND    A 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  AUTHOR,  BY  JANE  E.  LOCKE. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.   B.   PETERSON  &  BROTHERS; 

306   CHESTNUT   STREET. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

T.     B.     PKTKHSOX     &     15ROTIIEU.;, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tln>  District  Court  of  the  United   States,  in  anil   for  the 
Eastern  District  of  IVinisvlvaniiX. 


PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE. 


The  interest  in  the  fate  of  Eliza  Wharton  (or  Eliz 
abeth  Whitman)  is  to  be  explained  only  by  the  air 
of  mystery  which  surrounds  her.  A  few  years  after 
her  death,  the  first  edition  of  this  volume,  "  The 
Coquette,  or  the  Life  and  Letters  of  Eliza  Wharton," 
written  by  Mrs.  Hannah  Foster,  wife  of  Rev.  John 
Foster,  of  Brighton,  appeared,  and  was  immensely 
popular  throughout  the  whole  of  New  England,  where 
the  chief  actors  were  well  known,  Miss  Whitman,  the 
heroine,  having  been  a  reigning  belle  in  New  England, 
and  the  idol  of  society  for  many  years.  Her  first 
accepted  lover  was  a  Boston  clergyman,  who  died ; 
her  second,  who  treated  her  shamefully,  was  also  a 
New  England  clergyman  of  wide  renown;  and  her 
last  was  her  favored  lover  and  cousin,  Pierrepont 
Edwards,  of  good  pious  Connecticut  family,  ranking 
with  Aaron  Burr,  another  cousin,  in  beauty,  audacity, 
and  fascination.  The  book  is  in  the  form  of  letters, 
Avritten  by  Eliza  Wharton  herself  and  her  friends ;  and 
the  letters  are  of  uncommon  vivacity  and  freedom  for 
the  time  when  statcliness  was  the  fashion  even  in 
family  letters.  They  represent  Miss  Whitman  as 
handsome,  bright  and  vain,  falling  a  victim  to  her 
caprice  and  ambition.  None  of  her  lovers  appear  in  an 
attractive  light,  and  there  seems  to  be  no  apology  for 
the  wretched  tragedy.  The  novel  ran  through  twenty 

(17) 


18  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 

or  more  editions,  sometimes  out  of  print  for  a  while, 
and  then  reappearing  when  something  called  out  fresh 
interest  in  the  heroine.  The  present  edition  contains 
a  sentimental  and  historical  preface,  including  a  full 
and  complete  memoir  of  the  author,  which  we  would 
advise  all  to  read,  written  by  Jane  E.  Locke,  who  tells, 
what  she  believes  to  be,  all  the  facts  in  the  case,  and 
gives  dates,  which  are  omitted  entirely  in  the  novel, 
and  true  names,  which  in  the  novel  were,  for  certain 
reasons,  at  that  time,  concealed.  She  confirms  Mrs. 
Foster's  story,  and  adds  the  record  of  the  death  of  all 
of  Eliza  Whitman's  near  relatives,  and  states  at  length, 
how,  that  in  the  midsummer  of  1788,  there  arrived  at 
the  Bell  Tavern,  in  Danvers,  a  woman  of  distinguished 
appearance  and  remarkable  beauty,  who  gave  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Walker,  and  wished  to  wait  there  for 
her  husband's  arrival.  Weeks  passed  on,  but  the 
husband  did  not  come.  In  July,  the  lady  gave  birth 
to  a  dead  child,  and  two  weeks  later  she  d\ed  herself, 
and  was  buried  in  the  Danvers  graveyard.  It  was  not 
till  after  her  death,  that  her  friends,  who  were  seeking 
her,  learned  of  her  sad  fate;  and  stones  bearing  the 
name  "  ELIZA  WHARTON  "  were  erected  at  each  end  of 
her  grave,  and  how  year  after  year  a  lady  and  gentle 
man  visited  the  grave,  but  came  no  one  knew  whence, 
gave  no  name,  and  went  no  one  knew  whither. 

Her  grave  became  a  place  of  pilgrimage;  relic 
hunters  chipped  away  the  head  and  foot-stones  of  the 
heroine,  and  lovers  plighted  their  troth  amid  the 
whispering  of  the  unmown  grass.  Eliza  Wharton  was 
a  descendant  of  the  English  Stanleys,  and  a  daughter- 
in-law  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  president  of  Princeton 
College,  New  Jersey. 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE, 


INCLUDING 


A    MEMOIR    OF    THE    AUTHOR. 


HE  who  waits  beside  the  folded  gates  of  mys 
tery,  over  which  forever  float  the  irnpurpled  vapors 
of  the  PAST,  should  stand  with  girded  loins,  and 
white,  unshodden  feet.  So  he  who  attempts  to 
lift  the  veil  that  separates  the  REAL  from  the  IDEAL, 
or  to  remove  the  heavy  curtain  that  for  a  century 
may  have  concealed  from  view  the  actual  person 
ages  of  a  well-drawn  popular  fiction,  or  what  may 
have  been  received  as  such,  should  bring  to  his 
task  a  tender  heart  and  a  delicate  and  gentle  hand. 

Thus,  in  preparing  an  introductory  chapter  for 
these  pages  which  are  to  follow,  many  and  various 
thoughts  suggest  themselves,  and  it  is  necessary 
to  recognize  and  pursue  them  with  gentleness  and 

caution. 

(19) 


20  HISTORICAL    PREI'ACK. 

The  romance  of  "  Eliza  Wharton "  appeared 
in  print  not  many  years  subsequent  to  the  assumed 
transactions  it  so  faithfully  attempts  to  record. 
Written  as  it  was  by  one  highly  educated  for  the 
times,  —  the  popular  wife  of  a  popular  clergyman, 
connected  in  no  distant  degree,  by  marriage,  with 
the  family  of  the  heroine,  and  one  who  by  the 
very  profession  and  position  of  her  husband  was, 
as  by  necessity,  brought  into  the  sphere  of  actual 
intercourse  with  the  principal  characters  of  the 
novel,  and  as  the  book  also  took  precedence  in  time 
of  all  American  romances,  when,  too,  the  literature 
of  the  day  was  any  thing  but  "  light"  —  it  is  not 
surprising  that  it  thus  took  precedence  in  interest 
as  well  of  all  American  novels,  at  least  throughout 
New  England,  and  was  found,  in  every  cottage 
within  its  borders,  beside  the  family  Bible,  and 
though  pitifully,  yet  almost  as  carefully  treasured. 

Since  that  time  it  has  run  through  a  score  of 
editions,  at  long  intervals  out  of  print,  and  again 
revived  at  the  public  call  with  an  eagerness  of 
distribution  which  few  modern  romances  have 
enjoyed.  Its  author,  Hannah  Foster,  was  the 
daughter  of  Grant  Webster,  a  well-known  mer 
chant  of  Boston,  and  wife  of  Rev.  John  Foster, 
of  Brighton,  Massachusetts,  whose  pedigree,  but 
few  removes  backward  in  the  line  of  her  hus- 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  21 

band,*  interlinked,  as  has  been  already  hinted, 
with  that  of  the  "  Coquette."  Thus  did  they 
hold  towards  each  other  that  very  significant  re 
lationship —  especially  in  the  past  century  —  of 
u  cousins"  a  relationship  better  heeded  and  more 
earnestly  recognized  and  cherished  than  that  of 
nearer  kin  at  the  present  day.  Therefore,  not  only 
by  family  ties,  but  by  similarity  of  positions  and 
community  of  interests,  was  she  brought  into  im 
mediate  acquaintance  with  the  circumstances  here 
in  combined,  and  especially  qualified  to  write  the 
history  with  power  and  effect.  Nor  is  this  the 
only  work  which  bears  the  impress  of  her  gifted 
pen.  There  is  still  another  extant,  of  which  I 
need  not  at  this  time  and  place  make  mention, 
besides  many  valuable  literary  contributions  to  the 
scattered  periodicals  of  that  day.  It  is  to  be  re 
gretted  here  that  a  short  time  previous  to  her 
death  she  destroyed  the  whole  of  her  manuscripts, 
which  might,  in  many  respects,  have  been  particu 
larly  valuable. 

She  has,  however,  transmitted  her  genius    and 


*  John  Whitman,  whose  lather  was  brother  to  the  grandfather  of 
"  Eliza  Wharton,"  married  a  daughter  of  Rev.  Mr.  Foster,  of  Stafford, 
Connecticut,  who  afterwards  settled  in  Stow,  Massachusetts,  and  who 
was  father  of  Rev.  John  Foster,  of  Brighton,  Massachusetts,  the  hus 
band  of  the  author  of  this  book. 


22  HISTORICAL    PREPACK. 

her  powers,  which  find  expression  and  appreciation 
in  two  daughters  still  living  in  Montreal,  Canada 
East,  one  of  whom  is  the  gifted  author  of  "  Peep 
at  the  Pilgrims,"  "  Sketches  from  the  Life  of 
Christ,"  and  "  Confessions  of  an  early  Martyr,"  all 
of  which  have  been  very  popular;  the  first  having 
been  republished  here  within  a  short  period,  and 
also  in  England  with  still  greater  success.  The 
other  daughter,  the  widow  of  the  late  Dr.  Gushing, 
who,  while  firm  at  his  post  as  physician  at  the 
Emigrant  Hospital,  fell  a  victim  to  that  terrible 
malady,  ship  fever,  in  1846,  is  also  author  of  many 
minor  works,  and  co-editor  of  the  "  Snowdrop,"  a 
monthly  publication  of  much  merit  in  Montreal. 
Mrs.  Foster  died  in  that  place,  at  the  residence  of 
her  daughter,  Mrs.  Cushing,  April  17,  1840,  at  the 
advanced  age  of  eighty-one  years. 

It  may  seem,  however,  at  a  period  so  long 
subsequent  to  the  actual  transpiration  of  events 
herein  recorded,  that  little  could  be  said  to  throw 
light  or  interest  upon  the  history,  and  even  less 
upon  the  character,  or  in  extenuation  of  the  follies 
or  the  frailties  of  the  unfortunate  subject  of  the 
following  pages,  and  upon  which  public  opinion 
had  long  ago  rendered  its  verdict  and  sealed  it 
for  a  higher  tribunal.  Yet  T  am  happy  in  assuring 
any  who  may  pause  over  these  prefatory  leaves 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  23 

that  this  is  not  the  fact ;  and  it  harms  us  not  to 
believe  that  over  every  life,  however  full  of  error 
it  may  be,  there  is  an  unwritten  chapter  which  the 
angels  take  into  account  as  they  bear  upward  the 
tearful  record,  and  which  He,  the  great  Scribe, 
"  who  ever  sitteth  at  the  right  hand  of  the  Father," 
and  from  whose  solemn  utterance  on  earth  dropped 
the  forever  cherished  words  which  have  so  often 
given  life  and  hope  to  the  penitent  fallen,  —  "neither 
do  I  condemn  thee"  —  interpolates  on  the  mighty 
leger  of  eternity  for  the  great  reckoning  day. 

"  Eliza  Wharton,"  generally  known,  perhaps,  as 
Elizabeth  Whitman,  was  the  eldest  of  four  chil 
dren  —  Elizabeth,  Mary,  Abigail,  and  William ;  the 
latter  of  whom  was  a  physician,  twice  married, 
and  who  also  left  a  son  of  his  own  name,  (Wil 
liam  Elnathan,)  who  died  in  Philadelphia  in  1846, 
unmarried.  Her  father,  the  Rev.  Elnathan  Whit 
man,  was  the  son  of  Rev.  Samuel  Whitman,  who 
was  the  third  son  of  Rev.  Zechariah  Whitman,  the 
youngest  child  of  John,  the  original  ancestor  of  the 
Whitman  family.  He  (Rev.  Samuel  W.)  gradu 
ated  at  Harvard  University  in  1696,  and  was  for 
several  years  a  tutor  there.  Thus  having  passed 
through  the  usual,  though  then  somewhat  limited, 
course  of  theology,  he  was  ordained  as  minister 
of  the  gospel  in  Farmington,  Connecticut,  in  1706, 


24  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

at  that  time  one  of  the  largest  towns  in  the  state. 
He  inherited  by  bequest  one  half  of  his  father's 
lands  in  Stow,  Massachusetts,  and  was  thereby 
also  made  executor  of  his  will.  He  married, 
March  19,  1707,  Mary  Stoddard,  daughter  of  Rev. 
Solomon  Stoddard,  second  minister  of  Northamp 
ton,  Massachusetts.  Mr.  Stoddard  was  born  in 
Boston  in  1643,  and  died  in  Northampton  in  1729. 
This  Solomon  Stoddard  was  the  great-grandfather 
of  Hon.  Solomon  Stoddard,  now  residing  in  North 
ampton. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  here  that  the  early  an 
cestors  of  "  Eliza  Wharton "  intermarried  also 
with  the  Edwards  family  ;  so  that  Hon.  Pierpont 
Edwards,  who  figures  in  this  volume  as  "  Major 
Sanford,"  could  be  no  less  than  second  cousin  to 
his  unfortunate  victim. 

Rev.  Elnathan  Whitman,  the  father  of  Eliza 
beth,  was  born  January  12,  1708-9,  and  graduated 
from  Yale  College,  New  Haven,  where  he  was  for 
several  subsequent  years  a  tutor.  He  at  length  set 
tled  as  minister  over  the  Second  Church  in  Hart 
ford,  Connecticut,  and  there  married  Abigail  Stan 
ley,  daughter  of  Colonel  Nathaniel  Stanley,  treas 
urer  of  the  colony  of  Connecticut,  a  woman  of  un 
common  energy  of  character  and  of  superior  mental 
acquirements,  (a  correct  portrait  of  whom  accom- 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  25 

panies  these  pages,  taken  from  an  original  paint 
ing.)  He  died  in  Hartford  also,  March  2,  1776, 
aged  sixty-eight  years,  after  having  served  in  the 
ministry  in  that  place  forty-three  of  the  same.  His 
tombstone  bears  the  following  inscription  :  — 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
THE  REV.  ELNATHAN  WHITMAN, 

Pastor  of  the  Second  Church  of  Christ  in  Hartford,  and  one  of  the 
fellows  of  the  corporation  of  Yale  College,  who  departed  this  life 
the  2d  day  of  March,  A.  D.  1776,  in  the  69th  year  of  his  age  and  44th 
of  his  ministry. 

Endowed  with  superior  natural  abilities  and  good  literary  acquire 
ments,  he  was  still  more  distinguished  for  his  unaffected  piety,  primi 
tive  simplicity  of  manners,  and  true  Christian  benevolence.  He 
closed  a  life  spent  in  the  service  of  his  Creator  in  humble  confidenca 
of  eternal  happiness  through  the  merits  of  the  Savior. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

His  wife  survived  him  nineteen  years,  and  died 
November  19,  1795,  aged  seventy-six.  It  was 
during  the  dark,  early  period  of  her  widowhood 
that  the  sad  events  occurred  which  have  furnished 
the  historian  and  the  novelist  with  themes  of  the 
deepest  pathos,  and  to  which  prominence  is  given 
in  the  following  pages.  But, 

"  Woes  cluster.     Rare  are  solitary  woes ; 
They  love  a  train  —  they  tread  each  other's  heels." 

So  said  the  jsublimest  of  poets,  and  so  has  all  ex- 


20  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

perience  proved.  Thus,  in  her  case,  this  affliction 
did  not  come  alone ;  but  at  a  period  nearly  con 
nected  with  this,  in  the  dreary,  solitary  hours  of 
the  night,  —  her  night  of  sorrow  too,  —  her  house 
was  discovered  on  fire,  which,  for  lack  of  modern 
appliances,  was  totally  destroyed,  with  all  its  con 
tents,  consisting  not  only  of  many  curious  and 
valuable  articles  of  furniture  both  for  use  and 
ornament,  but  embracing,  also,  an  uncommon 
library,  overflowing  with  rare  books,  pamphlets, 
&c.,  which  her  late  husband  had  collected  with 
great  effort  and  research. 

Elizabeth,  the  eldest  of  her  family,  was  born 
in  1752.  She  was  a  child  of  early  promise,  and 
remarkable  in  maturer  years  for  her  genius  (I 
use  the  term  in  no  merely  conventional  sense,  as 
will  hereafter  appear)  and  accomplishments,  as 
well  as  for.  her  genial  spirit  and  tender  and  endear 
ing  qualities.  Her  maternal  ancestor,  Thomas 
Stanley,  was  an  original  owner  and  settler  in 
Hartford,  Connecticut,  and  removed  to,  and  died 
in,  Hadley,  Massachusetts,  January  30,  1662—3. 

Thus  nobly  descended  and  connected,  so  singu 
larly  unfortunate,  and  her  fate  so  afflicting  and 
disastrous,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  novelist  point 
ed  her  pen  to  record,  with  historical  accuracy,  a 
destiny  so  fearful,  a  career  so  terrible.  By  her  ex 
ceeding  personal  beauty  and  accomplishments, 


HISTORICAL    PREPACK.  27 

added  to  the  wealth  of  her  mind,  she  attracted  to 
her  sphere  the  grave  and  the  gay,  the  learned  and 
the  witty,  the  worshippers  of  the  beautiful,  with 
those  who  reverently  bend  before  all  inner  graces. 

Prominent  among  these  was  the  Rev.  Joseph 
Howe,  then  pastor  at  the  New  South  Church,  on 
Church  Green,  in  this  city,  a  young  man  of  rare 
talents  and  eminent  piety.  Unfortunately,  the 
fear  and  excitement  consequent  on  the  hostile  re 
lation  of  the  colonies  at  that  time  towards  the 
mother  country  forced  him  from  his  position  here ; 
and  he  left,  with  the  family  whose  house  had 
been  his  home,  for  a  more  quiet,  temporary  re 
treat  in  Norwich,  Connecticut.  Soon  after  this 
he  repaired  to  the  residence  of  Jlev.  Mr.  Whitman, 
in  Hartford,  for  a  short  visit,  high  in  the  anticipa 
tion  of  soon  becoming  the  happy  husband  of  the 
gifted  daughter  Elizabeth.  But  Providence,  in 
wisdom,  had  ordered  it  otherwise  ;  and,  while  on 
this  visit,  he  suddenly  sickened  and  died. 

However  much  or  little  of  soul  or  of  sorrow  she 
had  in  this  event  we  are  not  to  know  ;  but  another 
stood  ready  to  worship  in  his  place,  what  we  will 
endeavor  to  believe  was  in  some  degree  worthy 
of  homage.  This  was  "  J.  Boyer,"  known  as 
the  Rev.  Joseph  Buckminster,  a  graduate  of  Yale 
College,  and  at  that  time  tutor  in  the  same  insti- 


28  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

tution,  who  afterwards  settled  as  minister  over  the 
religious  society  in  Portsmouth,  New  Hampshire, 
and  whose  Biography  was  but  a  few  years  ago 
published. 

We  have  no  reason  to  believe,  however,  that 
either  of  these  persons  was  her  earliest  choice, 
especially  the  latter,  or  that,  in  this  case  most  cer 
tainly,  there  could  have  been  at  all  that  sacred 
congeniality  of  spirit  so  deeply  necessary  to  wo 
man's  nature,  bearing  out  from  her  bosom  that 
deathless  affection  which  nor  pride,  nor  affluence, 
nor  folly,  nor  love  of  conquest,  with  the  victory 
every  where  certain,  could  in  any  wise  overcome. 

The  feeling  that  existed  on  her  part  was  of  cir 
cumstances  only,  mfluenced  by  strong  parental 
predilection,  and  the  desire  which  so  often  obtains 
in  the  heart  of  a  true  woman  —  that  of  soothing 

O 

the  love  she  cannot  return,  resolving  itself  at  lengrh 
into  pity. 

We  might  here  also  dwell  upon  the  idiosyncra 
sies  of  genius  as  applicable  to  her  case,  which  are 
generally  banned,  of  whatever  character  they  may 
be,  and  evermore  shut  out  all  sympathy,  till,  in 
despair  or  despite,  folly  is  made  crime.  But  since 
sin  must  ever  be  arraigned  for  itself,  and  error  is 
prone  to  plead  for  mercy,  I  leave  no  word  here  that 
can  be  misconstrued  or  misapplied.  Certain  it  is 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  29 

that  Elizabeth  Whitman  was  marked  as  one  of 
strangely  fluctuating  moods,  as  the  truly  gifted 
ever  are,  and  of  a  wild,  incomprehensible  nature, 
little  understood  by  those  who  should  have  known 
her  best,  and  with  whom  she  was  most  intimate. 
Over  this,  in  tracing  her  history,  it  were  well  to 
pause,  were  it  not  that  thus  we  might  give  coun 
tenance  to  this  prominent  fact  of  modern  days, 
that  the  eccentricities  of  genius  ^are  often  substi 
tuted  for  genius  itself,  or  are  made  its  prime  char 
acteristics,  as  the  gold  of  the  jeweller  is  recom 
mended  for  its  beauty  and  strength  in  proportion 
to  its  alloy. 

However  much  we  may  regret  the  waywardness 
of  such  a  heart  in  the  present  instance,  in  that  it 
rejected  one  so  nobly  qualified  as  was  Mr.  Buck- 
minster  to  appreciate  its  genius  and  its  love,  while 
sympathizing  with  his  own  mortifying  disappoint 
ment,  (for  this  we  must  admit,)  that  she  had  in  the 
secrets  of  her  nature  a  preference  for  another,  we 
cannot  altogether  know  its  results.  So  cautiously 
and  discreetly  did  he,  through  a  long  and  beautiful 
life,  qualify  both  his  lips  and  his  pen,  that  little  or 
nothing  remains  beyond  these  letters  of  the  novel 
ist  —  which  we  may  not  doubt  are  authentic,  as 
they  were  long  in  the  possession  of  Mrs.  Henry  Hill, 
of  Boston,  the  "  Mrs.  Sumner"  of  the  novel  —  to 


30  HISTORICAL    1'REFACfc. 

tell  how  the  heart  was  instructed,  and  how  blighted 
hope  and  blasted  affection  were  made  the  lobes 
through  which  the  spirit  caught  its  sublimest  and 
holiest  respiration.  We  know 

"  Through  lacerations  takes  the  spirit  wing, 
And  in  the  heart's  long  death  throe  grasps  true  life." 

One  little  remark  which  has  been  suffered  to  creep 
into  his  Memoirs  is,  however,  of  peculiar  signifi 
cance.  I  quote  it  here. 

In  speaking  of  Connecticut  to  a  friend,  he  says, 
"  My  place  was  there ;  I  always  wished  that  state 
to  be  my  home ;  but  Providence  has  directed  my 
line  of  duty  far  away  from  the  place  of  my  first 
affections." 

He  also  —  as  one  who  had  every  means  of 
knowing  the  fact  has  informed  me  —  was  deeply 
affected  on  reading  the  "romance"  here  following, 
and  at  the  time  remarked  that,  had  the  author 
been  personally  acquainted  (not  knowing  that 
she  was)  with  the  circumstances  of  his  engage 
ment  with  Elizabeth  Whitman,  she  could  not 
have  described  them  with  more  graphic  truth. 

The  Hon.  Pierrepont  Edwards,  to  whom  was 
given  the  preference  and  precedence  above  referred 
to,  and  who  is  made  to  assume  in  the  chapters  of 
the  novel  the  name  of  "  Sanford,"  was  the  son  of 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  31 

Rev.  Jonathan  Edwards,  president  of  Princeton 
College,  New  Jersey.  His  maternal  grandmother 
was  Esther,  the  second  daughter  of  the  Rev. 
Solomon  Stoddard,  and  sister  to  the  paternal 
grandmother  of  Elizabeth  Whitman,  the  wife  of 
Rev.  Samuel  Whitman  before  mentioned.  A  Mr. 
Burt  has  by  some  been  identified  with  this  "  San- 
ford,"  the  rival  of  "  Boyer,"  yet  without  the  least 
pretension  in  history  to  authenticity.  Nor  can  we 
place  much  reliance  upon  the  letters  here  intro 
duced  as  his  in  point  of  originality,  as  there  is 
sufficient  reason  for  believing  that  these  are,  for 
the  most  part,  of  the  author's  invention,  founded 
upon  the  current  reputation  of  his  after  years. 
And  we  may  be  happy  in  so  considering  them, 
since  they  would  betray  a  character,  even  in  earli 
est  manhood,  too  depraved  and  debased  for  hon 
orable  mention,  although  his  errors  were  no  doubt 
altogether  beyond  the  palliation  of  a  woman's 
pen.  Yet  we  would  fain  look  at  him,  in  youth  at 
least,  as  undebauched  and  uncorrupt,  however 
stained  may  be  the  record  of  his  manhood. 

Between  him  and  Elizabeth  Whitman  there 
was,  notwithstanding,  over  all  and  under  all,  a 
close  affinity  of  spirit;  and  there  is  no  question, 
aside  from  the  frailties  and  objections  which  the 
writer  of  the  romance  has  introduced,  that  there 


32  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

was  a  marriage  of  the  soul,  superseding  all  after 
ties  which  worldliness  and  depravity  might  have 
consummated,  that  overshadows  sin,  and  may 
not  pass  into  our  reckoning.  Not  only  such  a 
marriage,  but  one,  though  secret,  actually  sanc 
tioned  by  the  laws  of  the  land,  she  is  known  to 
have  declared  a  fact  previous  to  her  death. 

Question  this  who  may,  that  deep  down  under 
the  impulses  of  surging  passion  there  existed  a 
purer  and  holier  affection  for  her,  is  in  history  suf 
ficiently  clear.  They  had  been  set  in  family  con 
nection,  intimate  by  kin,  intimate  in  earliest  life 
by  every  outward  tie,  and  especially  intimate  by 
the  subtile  affinities  of  their  spiritual  natures.  Yet 
he  who  can,  under  any  circumstances,  entreat  the 
love  of  woman,  and  then  take  advantage  of  her 
weakness  or  her  confidence,  is  an  anomaly  in  na 
ture,  and  should  have  a  special  judiciary  here  and 
in  heaven. 

Since  so  much  of  the  romance  here  following 
is  truth,  veritable  truth,  it  is  to  be  regretted  that 
any  error  of  historical  character  was  suffered  to 
assume  importance  in  the  narrative.  Yet  this 
is  so  often  the  case  in  works  of  this  kind,  that  it 
is  not  remarkable  here.  More  surprising  is  it  that 
truth  was  so  carefully  and  conscientiously  guarded 
and  preserved. 


HISTORICAL    PRKFACE.  33 

Iii  conflicting  statements,  it  is  difficult  to  deter 
mine  the  precise  year  of  the  marriage  of  Mr.  Ed 
wards,  whether  before  or  after  the  death  of  "  Eliza 
Wharton,"  although  it  may  have  been  long  before, 
even  as  one  of  his  biographers  has  it,  and  that 
recklessness  and  extravagance  may  have  lifted  him 
to  a  too  fearful  height  from  the  calm  Eden  of  love 
and  honor,  till  he  at  length  compromised  the  influ 
ence  of  both  to  baser  avarice. 

That  he  married  Frances  Ogden,  of  Elizabeth- 
town,  New  Jersey,  for  his  first  wife,  is  the  fact,  and 
the  date  given  is  1769.  •  Yet  the  ciphers  may  be 
questioned,  I  think,  as  it  would  make  him  but 
nineteen  years  of  age  at  the  time  of  the  event, 
besides  other  considerations  which  make  it  appear 
more  doubtful  still.  * 

He  was,  however,  as  has  been  already  stated, 
the  eleventh  and  youngest  child  of  Rev.  Jonathan 
Edwards,  and  was  born  in  Northampton,  Massa 
chusetts,  Sabbath.  His  biographer  has  been  par 
ticularly  faithful  in  thus  recording  it,  as  if  the 
hallowed  influences  of  the  Sabbath  upon  birth  have 
a  bearing  on  subsequent  life,  and  were  in  his  case 
either  strikingly  marked  or  missed.  He  was  born, 
then,  Sabbath,  April  8,  1750,  and  was  cousin,  in 
good  or  evil,  to  the  notorious  Aaron  Burr.  Ho 
2 


34x  HISTORICAL    PREPACK. 

was  also  brother  to  Rev.  Jonathan  Edwards,  presi 
dent  of  Union  College. 

His  mother,  Sarah  Pierrepont,  was  of  aristocratic 
origin,  and  the  daughter  of  Rev.  James  Pierrepont, 
and  granddaughter  of  John  Pierrepont,  of  Roxbury, 
from  whom  descended  Rev.  John  Pierpont,  the 
celebrated  poet  and  divine  of  our  own  time.  The 
Pierrepont  family  was  a  branch  of  the  family  of 
the  Duke  of  Kingston,  (Pierrepont  being  the  fami 
ly  name ;)  and  the  mother  of  Mr.  Edwards  was 
thus  cousin-german  to  Mary  Pierrepont,  (Lady 
Mary  Wortley  Montague.) 

Through  his  whole  ancestral  line  we  trace  the 
"  laying  on  of  hands  "  in  the  most  conspicuous  as 
in  the  divinest  order ;  and  thus  might  he  be  truly 
called  a  child  of  prayer  and  consecration.  What 
pity  that  his  biographer  should  have  been  compelled 
to  record,  "  The  most  remarkable  feature  of  his 
character  was  his  unbridled  licentiousness  " !  But 
we  cannot  drop  the  curtain  here.  We  would  re 
lieve  the  picture  by  this  somewhat  lighter  shade. 
"  His  intellectual  energies  were  gigantic.  As  a 
pleader  and  a  determined  and  artful  advocate,  he 
had  few  equals.  Hence,  as  a  lawyer,  he  scarcely 
ever  lost  a  case  in  his  whole  practice."  An  amusing 
anecdote  is  related  of  him  in  his  professional  career. 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  35 

"  In  an  insurance  case,  the  evidence  of  whicl  was 
strongly  against  him,  he  went  in  disguise  to  New 
London,  where  the  witnesses,  mostly  sailo»s,  re 
sided.  In  a  loafer-like  swagger  he  proposed  and 
secured  bets  from  every  material  evidence  in  the 
case,  and  thus  disqualified  them  from  bearing 
testimony,  on  the  ground  that  they  were  interested 
witnesses."  In  his  old  age  he  married  his  house 
keeper,  and  closed  an  eventful  and  unblessed  life 
at  Bridgeport,  April  14, 1826.  'Tis  well  to  memo 
rize  him  here,  and  thus  register  birth  and  death  on 
the  very  page  that  records  the  most  mysterious 
chapter  of  his  history. 

Let  us  return  to  unite  and  conclude  our  story. 
In  June,  1788,  a  female  of  uncommon  beauty  of 
person,  yet  with  an  oppressed  and  melancholy 
bearing,  suddenly  appeared  at  the  old  Bell  Tav 
ern  in  Danvers,  Massachusetts,  (a  drawing  of 
which  is  here  introduced.)  She  was  habited  in 
black,  and  \yas  seldom  seen  abroad,  never  except 
alone,  and  at  twilight,  when  she  was  observed  to 
wander  as  far  as  the  old  burying  ground  hard  by, 
and  there  to  pause  at  its  entrance,  gazing  long  and 
earnestly  upon  its  silent,  scattered  mounds,  at 
length  retracing  her  steps  with  the  same  melan 
choly  gait  and  air. 

Here  she  remained  nearly  a  month,  discovering 


36  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

to  none  her  real  name  or  situation.  She  passed 
her  time  in  writing,  and  occasionally  playing  upon 
a  guitar,  which  was  the  only  companion  of  her  soli 
tude.  After  remaining  there  about  two  weeks  a 
chaise  was  seen  to  pause  before  the  door,  upon  the 
lintel  of  which  had  secretly  been  traced  in  chalk, 
as  it  afterwards  appeared,  the  letters  "  E.  W."  A 
gentleman  hastily  alighted,  and  was  also  observed 
through  the  darkness  of  the  evening  to  examine  the 
casing  of  the  door,  and  then  return  to  the  chaise 
and  drive  rapidly  away. 

The  opinion  was,  by  those  who  were  cognizant 
of  the  fact,  that  this  was  a  secret,  preconcerted 
sign  by  which  the  lover  should  recognize  the  place 
of  her  retreat ;  and  being  too  faintly  drawn,  through 
the  darkness  of  the  night  he  failed  to  discover  the 
characters. 

From  this  time,  however,  the  spirits  of  the  stran 
ger  evidently  sunk ;  and  in  two  weeks  more  birth 
and  death  had  followed  each  other,  and  the  grave 
had  closed  over  all. 

This  stranger  had,  in  her  peculiar  situation, 
tenderly  won  upon  the  sympathies  of  a  few  kind- 
hearted  individuals  who  had  made  their  way  to 
her,  one  of  whom,  a  Mrs.  Southwick,  lived  directly 
opposite  the  Bell  Tavern.  These  were  with  her  in 
her  last  great  agony,  in  which  all  sense  of  guilt 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  37 

was  lost  in  pity.  Mrs.  S.  has  related  that  no  word 
of  complaint  or  accusation  was  heard  to  fall  from 
her  lips,  while  the  spirit  seemed  brightening  with  an 
unearthly  hope,  till  what  was  charming  in  life  was 
indescribably  lovely  in  death.  Thus  they  laid  the 
beautiful  stranger  in  the  saintly  robes  of  the  sepul 
chre  without  censure  and  without  accusation,  not 
knowing  how  painfully  she  was  mourned  and 
missed,  as  a  star  shut  out  of  vision  by  clouds 
and  storm,  in  the  home  of  her  childhood  and  in 
the  heart  of  a  widowed  mother. 

She  had  passed  under  the  assumed  name  of 
Walker  while  at  the  Bell  Tavern  of  Danvers,  and 
her  wardrobe  was  found  marked  with  the  corre 
sponding  initials,  "  E.  W.,"  although  applying  to 
her  real  name  as  well.  These  facts,  in  connec 
tion  with  her  death,  were  immediately  published 
in  the  Boston  and  Salem  journals,  and  her  friends 
advertised  to  appear ;  and  thus  were  her  real  name 
and  place  of  residence  elicited. 

A  short  time  afterwards,  and  a  stranger  came 
and  caused  to  be  erected  in  the  old  burying  ground 
in  Danvers,  on  the  spot  where  she  was  interred, 
two  "gray  stones,"  after  the  manner  of  Ossian, 
with  the  touching  inscription  which  this  volume 
records ;  and  the  feet  of  strangers,  moved  by  pity 
and  humanity,  have  worn  a  path  to  her  grave 


38  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

which  he  who  covets  most  in  the  world's  memory 
might  even  envy. 

The  tombstones  (which  the  lathers  of  that  ancient 
town  should  shame  to  have  recorded)  have  been 
battered  and  broken  for  relics,  till  much  of  the  in 
scription  is  gone  already,  and  the  footstone  entirely 
removed. 

But  I  have  noted  that  Elizabeth,  Whitman  was 
of  superior  merit,  and  had  been  recognized  as  a 
child  of  genius  in  its  most  earnest  sense.  From 
her  earliest  childhood  she  had  been  remarkable  for 
a  deeply  poetic  temperament,  and  it  appears  she 
was  recognized  as  a  poet  of  no  common  order  by 
the  most  distinguished  writers  of  the  day  —  Bar 
low,  Trumbull,  and  others.  Why  her  name  and 
writings  have  not  been  handed  down  to  us  by 
those  who  have  essayed  to  make  careful  compila 
tions  of  the  literature  of  the  past  century,  I  am  un 
able  to  divine.  She  was  a  relative  as  well  of  the 
last-named  poet,  Trumbull,  on  the  side  of  his 
mother,  who  was  Sarah  Whitman,  a  sister  of  Rev. 
Elnathan  Whitman,  the  father  of  Elizabeth. 

I  find  in  the  journals  of  that  time  the  following 
poem,  which,  though  not  the  best  of  her  produc 
tions,  certainly  gives  evidence  of  much  poetic 
power :  — 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  39 

TO    Mil.   BA11LOW. 
By  his  Friend  ELIZABETH  WHITMAN,  on  New  Year's  Day,  1783. 

Should  every  wish  the  heart  of  friendship  knows 

Be  to  your  ear  conveyed  in  rustic  prose, 

Lost  in  the  wonders  of  your  Eastern  clime, 

Or  rapt  in  vision  to  some  unborn  time, 

Th'  unartful  tale  might  no  attention  gain ; 

For  Friendship  knows  not,  like  the  Muse,  to  feign. 

Forgive  her,  then,  if  in  this  weak  essay 

She  tries  to  emulate  thy  daring  lay, 

And  give  to  truth  and  warm  affection's  glow 

The  charms  that  from  the  tuneful  sisters  flow. 

On  this  blest  morning's  most  auspicious  rise, 

Which  finds  thee  circled  with  domestic  joys, 

May  thy  glad  heart  its  grateful  tribute  pay 

To  Him  who  shaped  thy  course  and  smoothed  thy  way  — 

That  guardian  Power,  who,  to  thy  merit  kind, 

Bestowed  the  bliss  most  suited  to  thy  mind  — 

Retirement,  friendship,  leisure,  learned  ease, 

All  that  the  philosophic  mind  can  please  ; 

All  that  the  Muses  love,  th'  harmonious  nine, 

Inspire  thy  lays,  and  aid  the  great  design. 

But  more  than  all  the  world  could  else  bestow, 

All  pleasures  that  from  fame  or  fortune  flow, 

To  fix  secure  in  bliss  thy  future  life, 

Heaven  crowned  thy  blessings  with  a  lovely  wife  — 

Wise,  gentle,  good,  with  every  grace  combined 

That  charms  the  sense  or  captivates  the  mind ; 

Skilled  every  soft  emotion  to  improve. 

The  joy  of  friendship,  and  the  wish  of  love  ; 

To  soothe  the  heart  which  pale  Misfortune's  train 

Invades  with  grief  or  agonizing  pain ; 


40  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

To  point  through  devious  paths  the  narrow  road 
That  leads  the  soul  to  virtue  or  to  God. 

O  friend !  O  sister  !  to  my  bosom  dear 

By  every  tie  that  binds  the  soul  sincere  ; 

O,  while  I  fondly  dwell  upon  thy  name, 

Why  sinks  my  soul,  unequal  to  the  theme  ? 

Eut  though  unskilled  thy  various  worth  to  praise, 

Accept  my  wishes,  and  excuse  my  lays. 

May  all  thy  future  days,  like  this,  be  gay, 

And  love  and  fortune  blend  their  kindest  ray ; 

Long  in  their  various  gifts  mayst  thou  be  blessed, 

And  late  ascend  the  realms  of  endless  rest. 

Among  her  papers,  also,  after  her  decease,  was 
found  a  pastoral  on  "  Disappointment,"  which  here 
follows,  evidently  written  during  her  seclusion  in 
Danvers,  with  this  brief  and  pathetic  letter  in 
stenographic  characters  :  — 

"Must  I  die  alone?..  Shall  1  never  see  you 
more  ?  I  know  that  you  will  come  ;  but  you  will 
come  too  late.  This  is,  I  fear,  my  last  ability. 
Tears  fall  so  fast  I  know  not  how  to  write.  Why 
did  you  leave  me  in  such  distress  ?  But  I  will  not 
reproach  you.  All  that  was  dear  I  forsook  for 
you,  but  do  not  regret  it.  May  God  forgive  in 
both  what  was  amiss.  When  I  go  from  here,  I 
will  leave  you  some  way  to  find  me.  If  I  die,  will 
you  come  and  drop  a  tear  over  rny  grave?" 

The  poem,  which  continues  in  the  same  moving 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  41 

strain,  is  touching  and  tender,  and  betrays  a  heart 
lull  of  refinement  and  sensibility. 

DISAPPOINTMENT. 

With  i'ond  impatience,  all  the  tedious  day 

I  sighed,  and  wished  the  lingering  hours  away ; 

For  when  bright  Hespcr  led  the  starry  train, 

My  shepherd  swore  to  meet  me  on  the  plain. 

With  eager  haste  to  that  dear  spot  I  flew, 

And  lingered  long,  and  then  in  tears  withdrew. 

Alone,  abandoned  to  love's  tenderest  woes, 

l)own  my  pale  checks  the  tide  of  sorrow  flows  ; 

Dead  to  all  joy  that  Fortune  can  bestow, 

In  vain  for  me  her  useless  bounties  flow. 

Take  back  each  envied  gift,  ye  powers  divine, 

And  only  let  me  call  Fidelio  mine. 

Ah,  wretch !  what  anguish  yet  thy  soul  must  prove  ! 

For  thou  canst  hope  to  lose  thy  care  in  love ; 

And  when  Fidelio  meets  thy  tearful  eye, 

Pale  fear  and  cold  despair  his  presence  fly. 

With  pensive  steps  I  sought  thy  walks  again, 

And  kissed  thy  token  on  the  verdant  plain ; 

With  fondest  hope,  through  many  a  blissful  hour, 

We  gave  our  souls  to  Fancy's  pleasing  power. 

Lost  in  the  magic  of  that  sweet  employ, 

To  build  gay  scenes  and  fashion  future  joy, 

We  saw  mild  Peace  over  fair  Canaan  rise, 

And  shower  her  pleasures  from  benignant  skies. 

On  airy  hills  our  happy  mansion  rose, 

Built  but  for  joy  —  no  room  for  future  woes. 

Hound  the  calm  solitude  with  ceaseless  song, 

*  -*  •*  *  #  * 

Sweet  as  the  sleep  of  innocence  the  day, 
By  transports  measured,  lightly  danced  away  ; 


42  HISTORICAL    I'RKFACK. 

To  love,  to  bliss,  the  unioued  soul  was  given, 

And  —  ah,  too  happy  !  — asked  no  brighter  heaven. 

And  must  the  hours  in  ceaseless  anguish  roll  ? 

Will  no  soft  sunshine  cheer  my  clouded  soul  ? 

Can  this  dear  earth  no  transient  joy  supply  ? 

Is  it  my  doom  to  hope,  despair,  and  die  ? 

O,  come  once  more,  with  soft  endearments  come  ; 

Burst  the  cold  prison  of  the  sullen  tomb  ; 

Through  favored  walks  thy  chosen  maid  attend 

Where  well-known  shades  their  pleasing  branches  bend ; 

Shed  the  soft  poison  of  thy  speaking  eye, 

And  look  those  raptures  lifeless  words  deny. 

Still  he,  though  late,  reheard  what  ne'er  could  tire, 

But,  told  each  eve,  fresh  pleasures  would  inspire  ; 

Still  hope  those  scones  which  love  and  fancy  drew, 

But,  drawn  a  thousand  times,  were  ever  new. 

Can  fancy  paint,  can  words  express, 
Can  aught  on  earth  my  woes  redress  ? 
E'en  thy  soft  smiles  can  ceaseless  prove 
Thy  truth,  thy  tenderness,  and  love. 
Once  thou  couldst  every  bliss  inspire, 
Transporting  joy  and  gay  desire  ; 
Now  cold  Despair  her  banner  rears, 
And  Pleasure  flies  when  she  appears  ; 
Fond  Hope  within  my  bosom  dies, 
And  Agony  her  place  supplies. 
O  thou,  for  whose  dear  sake  I  bear 
A  doom  so  dreadful,  so  severe, 
May  happy  fates  thy  footsteps  guide, 
And  o'er  thy  peaceful  home  preside  ; 

Nor  let  E a's  early  tomb 

Infect  thcc  with  its  baleful  gloom. 

iStill  another  poem,  of  more  genuine  beauty  and 


HISTORICAL,    PREFACE.  !  P> 

strength  than  either  oi'  these,  has  been  preserved 
in  her  own  handwriting,  which  I  doubt  not  the 
reader  will  thank  me  for  introducing  here,  although 
it  bears  more  of  recrimination  than  the  others. 

Thy  presents  to  some  happier  lover  send ; 
Content  thyself  to  be  Lucinda's  friend. 
The  soft  expression  of  thy  gay  design 
111  suits  the  sadness  of  a  heart  like  mine  — 
A  heart  like  mine,  forever  doomed  to  prove 
Each  tender  woe,  but  not  one  joy  of  love. 

First  from  my  arms  a  dying  lover  torn, 
In  early  life  it  was  my  fate  to  mourn. 
A  father  next,  by  fate's  relentless  doom, 
With  heartfelt  woe  I  followed  to  the  tornb. 
Now  all  was  lost ;  no  friends  remained  to  guide 
My  erring  step,  or  calm  life's  boisterous  tide. 

Again  th'  admiring  youths  around  me  bowed ; 
And  one  I  singled  from  the  sighing  crowd. 
Well  skilled  he  was  in  every  winning  art  — 
To  warm  the  fancy,  or  to  touch  the  heart. 
Why  must  my  pen  the  noble  praise  deny, 
Which  virtue,  worth,  and  honor  should  supply  ? 

0  youth  beloved  !  what  pangs  my  breast  has  borne 
To  find  thee  false,  ungrateful,  and  forsworn  ! 

A  shade  and  darkness  o'er  my  prospect  spreads, 
The  damps  of  night  and  death's  eternal  shades. 
The  scorpion's  sting,  by  disappointment  brought, 
And  all  the  horrors  of  despairing  thought, 
Sad  as  they  arc,  I  might,  perhaps,  endure, 
And  bear  with  patience  what  admits  no  cure. 
But  here  my  bosom  is  to  madness  moved  ; 

1  suffer  by  the  wrongs  of  him  I  loved. 


•11  HISTORICAL    PREPACK. 

O,  had  I  died  by  pitying  Heaven's  decree, 
Nor  proved  so  black,  so  base,  a  mind  in  thee  ! 

But  vaiii  the  wish  ;  ray  heart  was  doomed  to  prove 

* 
Each  torturing  pang,  but  not  one  joy  of  love. 

AVouldst  thou  again  fallacious  prospects  spread, 

And  woo  me  from  the  confines  of  the  dead  ? 

The  pleasing  scenes  that  charmed  me  once  retrace  — 

Gay  scenes  of  rapture  and  ecstatic  bliss  ? 

How  did  my  heart  embrace  the  dear  deceit, 

And  fondly  cherish  the  deluding  cheat ! 

Delusive  hope,  and  wishes  sadly  vain, 

Unless  to  sharpen  disappointment's  pain. 

These  are.,  but  the  fragmentary  proofs  of  her 
poetic  ability;  still  they  are  the  most  ttiat  have 
been  preserved  bearing  full  authenticity ;  yet  these 
betray  a  skilful  and  accustomed  pen,  though 
stamped  with  the  bitterness  of  woe. 

Here,  then,  we  will  take  up  the  idea  which  we 
left  several  pages  back,  in  order  to  introduce  a 
quotation  from  a  volume  of  singular  power  in  be 
half  of  those  thus  gifted,  who  are  every  where 
looked  upon  with  some  degree  of  suspicion  at 
least,  as  I  find  our  heroine  was  even  long  before 
she  wandered  from  the  path  of  virtue.  I  quote  it 
only  to  soften  the  harsher  judgment  of  the  world, 
ever  eager  to  condemn  what  it  cannot  compre 
hend;  yet  must  it  by  no  means  be  made  to  apolo 
gize  for  any  sin. 

While  I  am  willing  to  be   known  as  believing 


HISTORICAL    PREFACE.  4f> 

that  genius  can  be  governed  by  no  conventional 
laws,  but  is  ever  a  law  unto  itself,  I  am  also  in 
the  full  belief  of  the  independent  moral  power  of 
every  individual  to  regulate  his  own  acts  accord 
ing  to  the  purest  code  of  morality.  But  to  the 
quotation,  which,  with  the  above  remarks,  the 
reader  would  find  pertinent  to  time  and  place  had 
he  turned  over  the  historical  pages  having  a  bear 
ing  on  this  romance  which  I  have. 

"  The  strong  seductions  and  fierce  trials  of  the 
heart  of  genius  who  shall  estimate?  *  *  * 
What  does  an  ordinary  mind  know  of  the  inner 
storm  and  whirlwind,  as  it  were,  of  restlessness ; 
the  craving  after  excitement  and  high  action ;  the 
inability  to  calm  the  breast  and  repose  in  fixity ; 
the  wild  beatings  and  widowed  longings  after 
sympathy  ?  *  *  *  It  is  the  severe  lot  of  genius 
that  its  blessedness  should  be  its  bane ;  that  that 
wherein  its  heavenly  franchise  gives  it  to  excel 
mankind  is  the  point  wherein  it  should  be  cursed 
above  Us  brethren!" 

More  I  might  quote ;  but  these  few  extracts 
are  sufficient  for  my  purpose  ;  and  I  hasten  to  con 
clude  this  chapter  with  what  may  to  the  general 
reader  appear  more  relevant. 

***** 

Not  many   years  ago   the   Bell    Tavern,  as   it 


40  HISTORICAL    PREFACE. 

was  ever  named,  was  razed  to  its  foundation,  and 
a  new  building  erected  on  the  spot  where  it  stood. 
At  this  time  a  pleasant  je.u  (f  esprit  from  the  hu 
morous  and  ready  pen  —  which  has  failed  not  to 
make  its  mark  in  the  world  —  of  Fitch  Poole,  Esq., 
of  Danvers,  was  published,  which  gained  a  wide 
credence  in  its  authenticity.  This  curious  witti 
cism  affected  to  have  discovered  in  the  wall  of 
the  room  which  "  Eliza  Wharton  "  occupied  an 
original  letter  from  her  to  Mr.  Edwards,  dated 
May,  1778,  besides  various  articles  of  her  wearing 
apparel,  such  as  slippers,  &c.,  and  also  her  guitar, 
all  of  which  had  been  concealed  in  the  ceiling 
since  the  sad  close  of  her  history.  Numbers 
flocked  to  see  them ;  but,  as  it  was  a  mere  pleas 
antry,  the  hoax  was  well  received,  and  ended  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Danvers  with  the  privileged 
"April  fool's  day"  of  its  date,  although  it  may 
even  yet  have  believers  in  distant  places. 

Thus,  kind  reader,  have  I  accomplished  the  task 
assigned  me  with  fidelity  to  truth  and  to  human 
ity,  and  here  lay  the  offering  on  the  altar  of  uni 
versal  love  without  excuse. 

JANE   E.  LOCKE. 


NOTE.  —  For  important  facts  which,  have  greatly  aided  me  in  pre 
paring  this  prefatory  chapter  I  am  much  indebted,  as  I  would  here 
gratefully  acknowledge,  to  Ezekiel  White,  Esq.,  of  Easthampton,  and 
Mrs.  H.  V.  Cheney,  of  Montreal.  J.  E.  L. 


THE  COQUETTE; 

OR,    THE 

LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OE  ELIZA  WHAETOK 


LETTER    I. 

To   Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

AN  unusual  sensation  possesses  my  breast  —  a 
sensation  which  I  once  thought  could  never  per 
vade  it  on  any  occasion  whatever.  It  is  pleasure, 
pleasure,  my  dear  Lucy,  on  leaving  my  paternal 
roof.  Could  you  have  believed  that  the  darling 
child  of  an  indulgent  and  dearly-beloyed  mother 
would  feel  a  gleam  of  joy  at  leaving  her?  But  so 
it  is.  The  melancholy,  the  gloom,  the  condolence 
which  surrounded  rne'for  a  month  after  the  death 
of  Mr.  Haly  had  depressed  my  spirits,  and  palled 
every  enjoyment  of  life.  Mr.  Haly  was  a  man  of 
worth  —  a  man  of  real  and  substantial  merit.  He 
is,  therefore,  deeply  and  justly  regretted  by  his 

(4?) 


48     ,  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 


friends.  He  was  chosen  to  be  a  future  guardian 
and  companion  for  me,  and  was,  therefore,  beloved 
}jy  mine.  As  their  choice,  as  a  good  man,  and  a 
faithful  friend,  I  esteemed  him  ;  but  no  one  ac 
quainted  with  the  disparity  of  our  tempers  and  dis 
positions,  our  views  and  designs,  can  suppose  my 
heart  much  engaged  in  the  alliance.  Both  nature 
and  education  had  instilled  into  my  mind  an  im 
plicit  obedience  to  the  will  and  desires  of  my  parents. 
To  them,  of  course,  I  sacrificed  my  fancy  in  this 
affair,  determined  that  my  reason  should  concur 
with  theirs,  and  on  that  to  risk  my  future  hap 
piness.  I  was  the  more  encouraged,  as  I  saw,  from 
our  first  acquaintance,  his  declining  health,  and 
expected  that  the  event  would  prove  as  it  has. 
Think  not,  however,  that  I  rejoice  in  his  death. 
No  ;  far  be  it  from  me ;  for  though  I  believe  that  I 
never  felt  the  passion  of  love  for  Mr.  Haly,  yet  a 
habit  of  conversing  with  him,  of  hearing  daily  the 
most  virtuous,  tender,  and  affectionate  sentiments 
from  his  lips,  inspired  emotions  of  the  sincerest 
friendship  and  esteem. 

He  is  gone.  His  fate  is  unalterably,  and  I  trust 
happily,  fixed.  He  lived  the  life,  and  died  the  death, 
of  the  righteous.  O  that  my  last  end  may  be  like 
his !  This  event  will,  I  hope,  make  a  suitable  and 
abiding  impression  upon  my  mind,  teach  me  the 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.      49 

fading  nature  of  all  sublunary  enjoyments,  and  the 
little  dependence  which  is  to  be  placed  on  earthly 
felicity.  Whose  situation  was  more  agreeable, 
whose  prospects  more  flattering,  than  Mr.  Haly's  ? 
Social,  domestic,  and  connubial  joys  were  fondly^ 
anticipated,  and  friends  and  fortune  seemed  ready 
to  crown  every  wish  ;  yet,  animated  by  still  brighter 
hopes,  he  cheerfully  bade  them  all  adieu.  In  con 
versation  with  me  but  a  few  days  before  his  exit, 
"  There  is,"  said  he,  "  but  one  link  in  the  chain  of 
life  undissevered ;  that,  rny  dear  Eliza,  is  my  at 
tachment  to  you.  But  God  is  wise  and  good  in 
all  his  ways ;  and  in  this,  as  in  all  other  respects,  I 
would  cheerfully  say,  His  will  be  done." 

You,  my  friend,  were  witness  to  the  concluding 
scene  ;  and,  therefore,  I  need  not  describe  it. 

I  shall  only  add  on  the  subject,  that  if  I  have 
wisdom  and  prudence  to  follow  his  advice  and  ex 
ample,  if  his  prayers  for  my  temporal  and  eternal  wel 
fare  be  heard  and  answered,  1  shall  be  happy  indeed. 

The  disposition  of  mind  which  I  now  feel  I 
wish  to  cultivate.  Calm,  placid,  and  serene, 
thoughtful  of  my  duty,  and  benevolent  to  all 
around  me,  I  wish  for  no  other  connection  than 
that  of  friendship. 

This   letter   is    all    an    egotism.     I    have    even 

neglected  to  mention  the  respectable  and  happy 
4 


50  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

friends  with  whom  I  reside,  but  will  do  it  in  my 
next.  Write  soon  and  often ;  and  believe  me  sin 
cerely  yours, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    II. 

To    THE    SAME. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Time,  which  effaces  every  occasional  impression, 
I  find  gradually  dispelling  the  pleasing  pensiveness 
which  the  melancholy  event,  the  subject  of  my  last, 
had  diffused  over  my  mind.  Naturally  cheerful,  vol 
atile,  and  unreflecting,  the  opposite  disposition  I 
have  found  to  contain  sources  of  enjoyment  which 
I  was  before  unconscious  of  possessing. 

My  friends  here  are  the  picture  of  conjugal 
felicity.  The  situation  is  delightful  —  the  visit 
ing  parties  perfectly  agreeable.  Every  thing  tends 
to  facilitate  the  return  of  my  accustomed  vivacity. 
I  have  written  to  my  mother,  and  received  an  an 
swer.  She  praises  my  fortitude,  and  admires  the 
philosophy  which  I  have  exerted  under  what  she 
calls  my  heavy  bereavement.  Poor  woman !  she 
little  thinks  that  my  heart  was  untouched;  and 
when  that  is  unaffected,  other  sentiments  and  pas- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  ELTZA   WHARTON.      51 

sions  make  but  a  transient  impression.  I  have 
been,  for  a  month  or  two,  excluded  from  the  gay 
world,  and,  indeed,  fancied  myself  soaring  above  it. 
It  is  now  that  I  begin  to  descend,  and  find  my  nat 
ural  propensity  for  mixing  in  the  busy  scenes  and 
active  pleasures  of  life  returning.  I  have  received 
your  letter  —  your  moral  lecture  rather ;  and  be  as 
sured,  my  dear,  your  monitorial  lessons  and  advice 
shall  be  attended  to.  I  believe  I  shall  never  again 
resume  those  airs  which  you  term  coquettish,  but 
which  I  think  deserve  a  softer  appellation,  as  they 
proceed  from  an  innocent  heart,  and  are  the  effu 
sions  of  a  youthful  and  cheerful  mind.  We  are  all 
invited  to  spend  the  day  to-morrow  at  Colonel 
Farington's,  who  has  an  elegant  seat  in  this  neigh 
borhood.  Both  he  and  his  lady  are  strangers  to 
me ;  but  the  friends  by  whom  I  am  introduced 
will  procure  me  a  welcome  reception.  Adieu. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    III. 

To    THE    SAME. 

NEW  HA  YEN. 

Is  it  time  for  me  to  talk  again  of  conquests  ? 
or   must  I  only  enjoy  them  in   silence  ?     I   must 


52  TTIK    COQUETTE  ;    OP.,    THE 

write  to  you  the  impulses  of  my  mind,  or  I  must 
not  write  at  all.  You  are  not  so  morose  as  to  wish 
me  to  become  a  nun,  would  our  country  and  re 
ligion  allow  it.  I  ventured,  yesterday,  to  throw 
aside  the  habiliments  of  mourning,  and  to  array 
myself  in  those  more  adapted  to  my  taste.  We 
arrived  at  Colonel  Farington's  about  one  o'clock. 
The  colonel  handed  me  out  of  the  carriage,  and 
introduced  me  to  a  large  company  assembled  in 
the  hall. 

My  name  was  pronounced  with  an  emphasis, 
and  I  was  received  with  the  most  flattering  to 
kens  of  respect.  When  we  were  summoned  to 
dinner,  a  young  gentleman  in  a  clerical  dress 
offered  me  his  hand,  and  led  me  to  a  table  fur 
nished  with  an  elegant  and  sumptuous  repast,  with 
more  gallantry  and  address  than  commonly  fall  to 
the  share  of  students.  He  sat  opposite  me  at 
table ;  and  whenever  I  raised  my  eye,  it  caught 
his.  The  ease  and  politeness  of  his  manners,  with 
his  particular  attention  to  me,  raised  my  curi 
osity,  and  induced  me  to  ask  Mrs.  Laiton  who  he 
was.  She  told  me  that  his  name  was  Boyer;  that 
he  was  descended  from  a  worthy  family;  had 
passed  with  honor  and  applause  through  the  uni 
versity  where  he  was  educated ;  had  since  studied 
divinity  with  success;  and  now  had  a  call  to 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA  WHAKTON. 


settle  as  a  minister  in  one  of  the  first  parishes  in  a 


neighboring  state. 

The  gates  of  a  spacious  garden  were  thrown 
open  at  this  instant,  and  I  accepted  with  avidity 
an  invitation  to  walk  in  it.  Mirth  and  hilarity  pre 
vailed,  and  the  moments  fled  on  downy  wings, 
while  we  traced  the  beauties  of  Art  and  Nature,  so 
liberally  displayed  and  so  happily  blended  in  this 
delightful  retreat.  An  enthusiastic  admirer  of 
scenes  like  these,  I  had  rambled  some  way  from 
the  company,  when  I  was  followed  by  Mrs.  Laiton 
to  offer  her  condolence  on  the  supposed  loss  which 
I  had  sustained  in  the  death  of  Mr.  Haly.  My 
heart  rose  against  the  woman,  so  ignorant  of  hu 
man  nature  as  to  think  such  conversation  accept 
able  at  such  a  time.  I  made  her  little  reply,  and 
waved  the  subject,  though  I  could  not  immediately 
dispel  the  gloom  which  it  excited. 

The  absurdity  of  a  custom  authorizing  people 
at  a  first  interview  to  revive  the  idea  of  griefs 
which  time  has  lulled,  perhaps  obliterated,  is  in 
tolerable.  To  have  our  enjoyments  arrested  by  the 
empty  compliments  of  unthinking  persons  for  no 
other  reason  than  a  compliance  with  fashion,  is  to 
be  treated  in  a  manner  which  the  laws  of  human 
ity  forbid. 

We  were  soon  joined  by  the  gentlemen,  who 


64  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

each  selected  his  partner,  and  the  walk  was  pro 
longed. 

Mr.  Boyer  offered  me  his  arm,  which  I  gladly  ac 
cepted,  happy  to  be  relieved  from  the  impertinence 
of  my  female  companion.  We  returned  to  tea ; 
after  which  the  ladies  sung,  and  played  by  turns 
on  the  piano  forte ;  while  some  of  the  gentlemen 
accompanied  with  the  flute,  the  clarinet,  and  the 
violin,  forming  in  the  whole  a  very  decent  concert. 
An  elegant  supper,  and  half  an  hour's  conversation 
after  it,  closed  the  evening ;  when  we  returned 
home,  delighted  with  our  entertainment,  and 
pleased  with  ourselves  and  each  other.  My  im 
agination  is  so  impressed  with  the  festive  scenes 
of  the  day  that  Morpheus  waves  his  ebon  wand 
in  vain.  The  evening  is  fine  beyond  the  power 
of  description;  all  Nature  is  serene  and  harmo 
nious,  in  perfect  unison  with  my  present  disposi 
tion  of  mind.  I  have  been  taking  a  retrospect  of 
my  past  life,  and,  a  few  juvenile  follies  excepted, 
which  I  trust  the  recording  angel  has  blotted  out 
with  a  tear  of  charity,  find  an  approving  con 
science  and  a  heart  at  ease.  Fortune,  indeed,  has 
not  been  very  liberal  of  her  gifts  to  me ;  but  I  pre 
sume  on  a  large  stock  in  the  bank  of  friendship, 
which,  united  with  health  and  innocence,  give  me 
some  pleasing  anticipations  of  future  felicity. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAKTON.      55 

Whatever  rny  fate  may  be,  I  shall  always  continue 
your 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    IV. 

To  MR.  SELBY. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

You  ask  me,  my  friend,  whether  I  am  in  pursuit 
of  truth,  or  a  lady.  I  answer,  Both.  I  hope  and 
trust  they  are  united,  and  really  expect  to  find 
Truth,  and  the  Virtues  and  Graces  besides,  in  a  fair 
form.  If  you  mean  by  the  first  part  of  your  ques 
tion  whether  I  am  searching  into  the  sublimer  doc 
trines  of  religion,  —  to  these  I  would  by  no  means 
be  inattentive ;  but,  to  be  honest,  my  studies  of  that 
kind  have  been  very  much  interrupted  of  late. 
The  respectable  circle  of  acquaintances  with 
which  I  am  honored  here  has  rendered  my  visits 
very  frequent  and  numerous.  In  one  of  these  I 
was  introduced  to  Miss  Eliza  Wharton  —  a  young 
lady  whose  elegant  person,  accomplished  mind,  and 
polished  manners  have  been  much  celebrated.  Her 
fame  has  often  reached  me  ;  but,  as  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  said  to  Solomon,  the  half  was  not  told  me. 
You  will  think  that  I  talk  in  the  style  of  a  lover 


56  THE  COQUETTE;  OK,  THE 

I  confess  it;  nor  am  I  ashamed  to  rank  myself 
among  the  professed  admirers  of  this  lovely  fair 
one.  I  am  in  no  danger,  however,  of  becoming 
an  enthusiastic  devotee.  No ;  I  mean  I  act  upon 
just  and  rational  principles.  Expecting  soon  to 
settle  in  an  eligible  situation,  if  such  a  companion 
as  I  am  persuaded  she  will  make  me  may  fall  to 
my  lot,  I  shall  deem  myself  as  happy  as  this  state 
of  imperfection  will  admit.  She  is  now  resident 
at  General  Richman's.  The  general  and  his  lady 
are  her  particular  friends ;  they  are  warm  in  her 
praises.  They  tell  me,  however,  that  she  is  nat 
urally  of  a  gay  disposition.  No  matter  for  that ; 
it  is  an  agreeable  quality,  where  there  is  discretion 
sufficient  for  its  regulation.  C.A  cheerful  friend, 
much  more  a  cheerful  wife,  is  peculiarly  necessary 
to  a  person  of  a  studious  and  sedentary  life. 
They  dispel  the  gloom  of  retirement,  and  exhila 
rate  the  spirits  depressed  by  intense  application. 
She  was  formerly  addressed  by  the  late  Mr.  Haly, 
of  Boston.  He  was  not,  it  seems,  the  man  of  her 
choice ;  but  her  parents  were  extremely  partial  to 
him,  and  wished  the  connection  to  take  place. 
She,  like  a  dutiful  child,  sacrificed  her  own  inclina 
tion  to  their  pleasure  so  far  as  to  acquiesce  in  his 
visits.  This  she  more  easily  accomplished,  as  his 
health,  which  declined  from  their  first  acquaint- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.      57 

ance,  led  her  to  suppose,  as  the  event  has  proved, 
that  he  would  not  live  to  enter  into  any  lasting  en 
gagements.  Her  father,  who  died  some  months 
before  him,  invited  him  to  reside  at  his  house  for 
the  benefit  of  a  change  of  air,  agreeably  to  the  ad 
vice  of  his  physicians.  She  attended  him  during 
his  last  illness  with  all  the  care  and  assiduity  of  a 
nurse  and  with  all  the  sympathizing  tenderness 
of  a  sister. 

I  have  had  several  opportunities  of  conversing 
with  her.  She  discovers  an  elevated  mind,  a  ready 
apprehension,  and  an  accurate  knowledge  of  the 
various  subjects  which  have  been  brought  into 
view.  I  have  not  yet  introduced  the  favorite  sub 
ject  of  my  heart.  Indeed,  she  seems  studiously  to 
avoid  noticing  any  expression  which  leads  towards 
it ;  but  she  must  hear  it  soon.  I  am  sure  of  the 
favor  and  interest  of  the  friends  with  whom  she  re 
sides.  They  have  promised  to  speak  previously  in 
my  behalf.  I  am  to  call,  as  if  accidentally,  this 
afternoon  just  as  they  are  to  ride  abroad.  They 
are  to  refer  me  to  Miss  "Wharton  for  entertainment 
till  their  return.  What  a  delightful  opportunity  for 
my  purpose !  I  am  counting  the  hours  —  nay,  the 
very  moments.  Adieu.  You  shall  soon  again 
hear  from  your  most  obedient, 

J.    BOYER. 


68  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,    THE 

LETTER    V. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

These  bewitching  charms  of  mine  have  a  ten 
dency  to  keep  my  mind  in  a  state  of  perturbation. 
I  am  so  pestered  with  these  admirers !  Not  that  I 
am  so  very  handsome  neither;  but,  I  don't  know  how 
it  is,  I  am  certainly  very  much  the  taste  of  the 
other  sex.  Followed,  flattered,  and  caressed,  I  have 
cards  and  compliments  in  profusion.  But  I  must 
try  to  be  serious ;  for  I  have,  alas !  one  serious 
lover.  As  I  promised  you  to  be  particular  in  my 
writing,  I  suppose  I  must  proceed  methodically. 
Yesterday  we  had  a  party  to  dine.  Mr.  Boyerwas 
of  the  number.  His  attention  was  immediately 
engrossed ;  and  I  soon  perceived  that  every  word, 
every  action,  and  every  look  was  studied  to  gain 
my  approbation.  As  he  sat  next  me  at  dinner,  his 
assiduity  and  politeness  were  pleasing ;  and  as  we 
walked  together  afterwards,  his  conversation  was 
improving.  Mine  was  sentimental  and  sedate  — 
perfectly  adapted  to  the  taste  of  my  gallant. 
Nothing,  however,  was  said  particularly  expres 
sive  of  his  apparent  wishes.  I  studiously  avoided 
every  kind  of  discourse  which  might  lead  to  this 
topic.  I  wish  not  for  a  declaration  from  any  one, 


LIFE   AND   LETTEES   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      5i* 

especially  from  one  whom  I  could  not  repulse  and 
do  not  intend  to  encourage  at  present.  His  con 
versation,  so  similar  to  what  I  had  often  heard 
from  a  similar  character,  brought  a  deceased  friend 
to  mind,  and  rendered  me  somewhat  pensive.  I 
retired  directly  after  supper.  Mr.  Boyer  had  just 
taken  leave. 

Mrs.  Richman  came  into  my  chamber  as  she 
was  passing  to  her  own.  "  Excuse  my  intrusion, 
Eliza,"  said  she.  "  I  thought  I  would  just  step  in 
and  ask  you  if  you  have  passed  a  pleasant  day." 

"  Perfectly  so,  madam ;  and  I  have  now  retired  to 
protract  the  enjoyment  by  recollection."  "  What,  my 
dear,  is  your  opinion  of  our  favorite,  Mr.  Boyer  ?  " 
"  Declaring  him  your  favorite,  madam,  is  sufficient 
to  render  me  partial  to  him ;  but  to  be  frank,  inde 
pendent  of  that,  I  think  him  an  agreeable  man." 
"  Your  heart,  I  presume,  is  now  free."  "  Yes,  and  I 
hope  it  will  long  remain  so."  "  Your  friends,  my  dear, 
solicitous  for  your  welfare,  wish  to  see  you  suitably 
and  agreeably  connected."  "  I  hope  my  friends  will 
never  again  interpose  in  my  concerns  of  that  nature. 
You,  madam,  who  have  ever  known  my  heart,  are 
sensible  that,  had  the  Almighty  spared  life  in  a 
certain  instance,  I  must  have  sacrificed  my  own 
happiness  or  incurred  their  censure.  I  am  young, 


60  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OB,   THE 

gay,  volatile.  A  melancholy  event  has  lately 
extricated  me  from  those  shackles  which  parental 
authority  had  imposed  on  my  mind.  Let  me,  then, 
enjoy  that  freedom  which  I  so  highly  prize.  Let  me 
have  opportunity,  unbiased  by  opinion,  to  gratify 
my  natural  disposition  in  a  participation  of  those 
pleasures  which  youth  and  innocence  afford."  "  Of 
such  pleasures,  no  one,  my  dear,  would  wish  to  de 
prive  you ;  but  beware,  Eliza !  Though  strewed 
with  flowers,  when  contemplated  by  your  lively 
imagination,  it  is,  after  all,  a  slippery,  thorny  path. 
The  round  of  fashionable  dissipation  is  dangerous. 
A  phantom  is  often  pursued,  which  leaves  its  de 
luded  votary  the  real  form  of  wretchedness."  She 
spoke  with  an  emphasis,  and,  taking  up  her  candle, 
wished  me  a  good  night.  I  had  not  power  to  re 
turn  the  compliment.  Something  seemingly  pro 
phetic  in  her  looks  and  expressions  cast  a  moment 
ary  gloom  upon  my  mind;  but  I  despise  those 
contracted  ideas  which  confine  virtue  to  a  cell.  I 
have  no  notion  of  becoming  a  recluse.  Mrs.  Rich- 
man  has  ever  been  a  beloved  friend  of  mine ;  yet 
I  always  thought  her  rather  prudish.  Adieu. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  ELIZA  WHARTON.      61 

LETTER    VI. 

To    THE    SAME. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  had  scarcely  seated  myself  at  the  breakfast 
table  this  morning  when  a  servant  entered  with  a 
card  of  invitation  from  Major  Sanford,  requesting 
the  happiness  of  my  hand  this  evening  at  a  ball 
given  by  Mr.  Atkins,  about  three  miles  from  this. 
I  showed  the  billet  to  Mrs.  Richman,  saying,  "  I  have 
not  much  acquaintance  with  this  gentleman,  mad 
am  ;  but  I  suppose  his  character  sufficiently  re 
spectable  to  warrant,  an  affirmative  answer."  "  He  is 
a  gay  man,  my  dear,  to  say  no  more ;  and  such  are 
the  companions  we  wish  when  we  join  a  party 
avowedly  formed  for  pleasure."  I  then  stepped  into 
my  apartment,  wrote  an  answer,  and  despatched 
the  servant.  When  I  returned  to  the  parlor,  some 
thing  disapprobating  appeared  in  the  countenances 
of  both  my  friends.  I  endeavored,  without  seeming 
to  observe,  to  dissipate  it  by  chitchat;  but  they 
were  better  pleased  with  each  other  than  with  me, 
and,  soon  rising,  walked  into  the  garden,  and  left 
me  to  amuse  myself  alone.  My  eyes  followed 
them  through  the  window.  "  Happy  pair ! "  said  I. 
"  Should  it  ever  be  my  fate  to  wear  the  hymeneal 
chain,  may  I  be  thus  united !  The  purest  and 


62  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

most  ardent  affection,  the  greatest  consonance  of 
taste  and  disposition,  and  the  most  congenial  vir 
tue  and  wishes  distinguish  this  lovely  couple. 
Health  and  wealth,  with  every  attendant  blessing, 
preside  over  their  favored  dwelling,  and  shed  their 
benign  influence  without  alloy."  The  conscious 
ness  of  exciting  their  displeasure  gave  me  pain ; 
but  I  consoled  myself  with  the  idea  that  it  was  ill 
founded. 

"  They  should  consider,"  said  I,  "  that  they  have 
no  satisfaction  to  look  for  beyond  each  other; 
there  every  enjoyment  is  centred ;  but  I  am  a 
poor  solitary  being,  who  need  some  amusement  be 
yond  what  I  can  supply  myself.  The  mind,  after 
being  confined  at  home  for  a  while,  sends  the  im 
agination  abroad  in  quest  of  new  treasures ;  and 
the  body  may  as  well  accompany  it,  for  aught  I 
can  see." 

General  Richman  and  lady  have  ever  appeared 
solicitous  to  promote  my  happiness  since  I  have 
resided  with  them.  They  have  urged  my  accept 
ance  of  invitations  to  join  parties;  though  they 
have  not  been  much  themselves  of  late,  as  Mrs. 
Richman's  present  circumstances  render  her  fond 
of  retirement.  What  reason  can  be  assigned  for 
their  apparent  reluctance  to  this  evening's  enter 
tainment  is  to  me  incomprehensible ;  but  I  shall 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      83 

apply  the  chemical  powers  of  friendship,  and  ex 
tract  the  secret  from  Mrs.  Richman  to-morrow,  if 
not  before.  Adieu.  I  am  now  summoned  to  din 
ner,  and  after  that  shall  be  engaged  in  preparation 
till  the  wished-for  hour  of  hilarity  and  mirth  en 
grosses  every  faculty  of  your 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    VII. 

i'o  MR.  SELBY. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Divines  need  not  declaim,  nor  philosophers  ex 
patiate,  on  the  disappointments  of  human  life. 
Are  they  not  legibly  written  on  every  page  of  our 
existence  ?  Are  they  not  predominantly  prevalent 
over  every  period  of  our  lives  ? 

When  I  closed  my  last  letter  to  you,  my  heart 
exulted  in  the  pleasing  anticipation  of  promised 
bliss ;  my  wishes  danced  on  the  light  breezes  of 
hope ;  and  my  imagination  dared  to  arrest  the 
attention  of,  and  even  claim  a  return  of  affection 
from,  the  lovely  Eliza  Wharton.  But  imagination 
only  it  has  proved,  and  that  dashed  with  the  bit 
ter  ranklings  of  jealousy  and  suspicion. 

But  to  resume  my   narrative.     I  reached   the 


64  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

mansion  of  my  friend  about  four.  I  was  disagree 
ably  struck  with  the  appearance  of  a  carriage  at 
the  door,  as  it  raised  an  idea  of  company  which 
might  frustrate  my  plan ;  but  still  more  disagree 
able  were  my  sensations  when,  on  entering  the 
parlor,  I  found  Major  Sanford  evidently  in  a  wait 
ing  posture.  I  was  very  politely  received ;  and 
when  Eliza  entered  the  room  with  a  brilliance  of 
appearance  and  gayety  of  manner  which  I  had 
never  before  connected  with  her  character,  I  rose, 
as  did  Major  Sanford,  who  offered  his  hand  and 
led  her  to  a  chair.  I  forgot  to  sit  down  again, 
but  stood  transfixed  by  the  pangs  of  disappoint 
ment.  Miss  Wharton  appeared  somewhat  con 
fused,  but,  soon  resuming  her  vivacity,  desired  me 
to  be  seated,  inquired  after  my  health,  and  made 
some  commonplace  remarks  on  the  weather;  then, 
apologizing  for  leaving  me,  gave  her  hand  again 
to  Major  Sanford,  who  had  previously  risen,  and 
reminded  her  that  the  time  and  their  engagements 
made  it  necessary  to  leave  the  good  company ; 
which,  indeed,  they  both  appeared  very  willing 
to  do.  General  Richman  and  lady  took  every 
method  in  their  power  to  remove  my  chagrin  and 
atone  for  the  absence  of  my  fair  one  ;  but  ill  did 
they  succeed.  They  told  me  that  Miss  Wharton 
had  not  the  most  distant  idea  of  my  visiting  there 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS    OF   ELIZA   WHAETON.      65 

this  afternoon,  much  less  of  the  design  of  my  visit; 
that  for  some  months  together  she  had  been  lately 
confined  by  the  sickness  of  Mr.  Haly,  whom  she  at 
tended  during  the  whole  of  his  last  illness;  which 
confinement  had  eventually  increased  her  desire 
of  indulging  her  natural  disposition  for  gayety. 
She  had,  however,  they  said,  an  excellent  heart 
and  reflecting  mind,  a  great  share  of  sensibility, 
and  a  temper  peculiarly  formed  for  the  enjoy 
ments  of  social  life.  "  But  this  gentleman,  madam, 
who  is  her  gallant  this  evening,  —  is  his  charac 
ter  unexceptionable  ?  Will  a  lady  of  delicacy 
associate  with  an  immoral,  not  to  say  profligate, 
man?"  "The  rank  and  fortune  of  Major  San- 
ford,"  said  Mrs.  Richman,  "  procure  him  respect ; 
his  specious  manners  render  him  acceptable  in 
public  company;  but  I  must  own  that  he  is  not 
the  person  with  whom  I  wish  my  cousin  to  be 
connected  even  for  a  moment.  She  never  con 
sulted  me  so  little  on  any  subject  as  that  of  his 
card  this  morning.  Before  I  had  time  to  object, 
she  dismissed  the  servant;  and  I  forbore  to  de 
stroy  her  expected  happiness  by  acquainting  her 
with  my  disapprobation  of  her  partner.  Her  omis 
sion  was  not  design  ;  it  was  juvenile  indiscretion. 
"We  must,  my  dear  sir,"  continued  she,  "  look  with 

a  candid  eye   on  such  eccentricities.     Faults,  not 
5 


66  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,    THE 

foibles,  require  the  severity  of  censure."  "  Far, 
madam,  be  it  from  me  to  censure  any  conduct 
which  as  yet  I  have  observed  in  Miss  Wharton , 
she  has  too  great  an  interest  in  my  heart  to  admit 
of  that." 

We  now  went  into  more  general  conversation. 
Tea  was  served;  and  I  soon  after  took  leave. 
General  Richman,  however,  insisted  on  my  dining 
with  him  on  Thursday  ;  which  I  promised.  And 
here  I  am  again  over  head  and  ears  in  the  hypo  — 
a  disease,  you  will  say,  peculiar  to  students.  I 
believe  it  peculiar  to  lovers  ;  and  with  that  class  1 
must  now  rank  myself,  though  I  did  not  know, 
until  this  evening,  that  I  was  so  much  engaged  as 
I  find  I  really  am.  I  knew,  indeed,  that  I  was  ex- 
^emely  pleased  with  this  amiable  girl ;  that  I  was 
interested  in  her  favor ;  that  I  was  happier  in  her 
company  than  any  where  else ;  with  innumerable 
other  circumstances,  which  would  have  told  me 
the  truth  had  I  examined  them.  But  be  that  as  it 
may,  I  hope  and  trust  that  I  am,  and  ever  shall  be, 
a  reasonable  creature,  and  not  suffer  my  judgment 
to  be  misled  by  the  operations  of  a  blind  passion. 

I  shall  now  lay  aside  this  subject ;  endeavor  to 
divest  even  my  imagination  of  the  charmer ;  and 
return,  until  Thursday,  to  the  contemplation  of  those 
truths  and  duties  which  have  a  happy  tendency 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.      67 

io  calm  the  jarring  elements  which  compose  our 
mortal  frame.     Adieu. 

J.  BOYER. 


LETTER    VIII. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

We  had  an  elegant  ball,  last  night,  Charles ; 
and  what  is  still  more  to  the  taste  of  your  old  friend, 
I  had  an  elegant  partner  ;  one  exactly  calculated  to 
please  my  fancy — gay,  volatile,  apparently  thought 
less  of  every  thing  but  present  enjoyment.  It  was 
Miss  Eliza  Wharton  —  a  young  lady  whose  agree 
able  person,  polished  manners,  and  refined  talents 
have  rendered  her  the  toast  of  the  country  around 
for  these  two  years  ;  though  for  half  that  time  she 
has  had  a  clerical  lover  imposed  on  her  by  her 
friends  ;  for  I  am  told  it  was  not  agreeable  to  her 
inclination.  By  this  same  clerical  lover  of  hers 
she  was  for  several  months  confined  as  a  nurse. 
But  his  death  has  happily  relieved  her ;  and  she 
now  returns  to  the  world  with  redoubled  lustre. 
At  present  she  is  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Richman,  who 
is  a  relation.  I  first  saw  her  on  a  party  of  pleas 
ure  at  Mr.  Frazier's,  where  we  walked,  talked, 


68  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

sang,  and  danced  together.  I  thought  her  cousin 
watched  her  with  a  jealous  eye ;  for  she  is,  you 
must  know,  a  prude  ;  and  immaculate  —  more  so 
than  you  or  I — must  be  the  man  who  claims  ad 
mission  to  her  society.  But  I  fancy  this  young 
lady  is  a  coquette ;  and  if  so,  I  shall  avenge  my 
sex  by  retaliating  the  mischiefs  she  meditates 
against  us.  Not  that  I  have  any  ill  designs,  but 
only  to  play  off  her  own  artillery  by  using  a  little 
unmeaning  gallantry.  And  let  her  beware  of  the 
consequences.  A  young  clergyman  came  in  at 
General  Richman's  yesterday,  while  I  was  waiting 
for  Eliza,  who  was  much  more  cordially  received 
by  the  general  and  his  lady  than  was  your  hum 
ble  servant ;  but  I  lay  that  up. 

When  she  entered  the  room,  an  air  of  mutual 
embarrassment  was  evident.  The  lady  recovered 
her  assurance  much  more  easily  than  the  gentle 
man.  I  am  just  going  to  ride,  and  shall  make  it 
in  my  way  to  call  and  inquire  after  the  health  of 
my  dulcinea.  Therefore,  adieu  for  the  present. 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      60 

LETTER    IX. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  am  not  so  happy  to-day  in  the  recollection  of 
last  evening's  entertainment  as  I  was  in  the  en 
joyment. 

The  explanation  which  I  promised  you  from 
Mrs.  Richman  yesterday  I  could  not  obtain.  When 
I  went  down  to  dinner  some  friends  of  General 
Richman's  had  accidentally  dropped  in,  which  pre 
cluded  all  particular  conversation.  I  retired  soon 
to  dress,  and  saw  Mrs.  Richman  no  more  till  I 
was  informed  that  Major  Sanford  waited  for  me. 
But  I  was  surprised,  on  going  into  the  parlor,  to  find 
Mr.  Boyer  there.  1  blushed  and  stammered  ;  but  I 
know  not  why  ;  for  certain  I  am  that  I  neither  love 
nor  fear  the  good  man  yet,  whatever  I  may  do  some 
future  day.  I  would  not  be  understood  that  I  do 
not  respect  and  esteem  him  ;  for  I  do  both.  But 
these  are  calm  passions,  which  soothe  rather  than 
agitate  the  mind.  It  was  not  the  consciousness 
of  any  impropriety  of  conduct ;  for  I  was  far  from 
feeling  any.  The  entertainment  for  which  I  was 
prepared  was  such  as  virtue  would  not  disapprove, 
and  my  gallant  was  a  man  of  fortune,  fashion, 
and,  for  aught  I  knew,  of  unblemished  character. 


70  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

But  Mr.  Boyer  was  much  more  disconcerted 
than  myself.  Indeed,  he  did  not  recover  his  phi 
losophy  while  I  staid.  I  believe,  by  some  hints  I 
have  received  since,  that  he  had  some  particular 
views  in  which  he  was  disappointed. 

Our  ball  had  every  charm  which  could  render  a 
ball  delightful.  My  partner  was  all  ease,  polite 
ness,  and  attention  ;  and  your  friend  was  as  much 
flattered  and  caressed  as  vanity  itself  could  wish. 
We  returned  to  General  Rich  man's  about  two. 
Major  Sanford  asked  leave  to  call  and  inquire  after 
my  health  this  morning ;  and  I  am  now  expecting 
him.  I  rose  to  breakfast.  The  late  hour  of  retiring 
to  rest  had  not  depressed,  but  rather  exhilarated, 
my  spirits.  My  friends  were  waiting  for  me  in 
their  parlor.  They  received  me  sociably,  inquired 
after  my  health,  my  last  evening's  entertainment, 
the  company,  &c. ;  when,  after  a  little  pause,  Mrs. 
llichman  said,  "  And  how  do  you  like  Major  San- 
ford,  Eliza  ? "  "  Very  well  indeed,  madam  ;  I 
think  him  a  finished  gentleman.  Will  you,  who 
are  a  connoisseur,  allow  him  that  title?"  "No, 
my  dear;  in  my  opinion  he  falls  far  below  it, 
since  he  is  deficient  in  one  of  the  great  essentials 
of  the  character;  and  that  is  virtue"  "I  am  sur 
prised,"  said  I;  "-but  how  has  he  incurred  so 
severe  a  censure  ?"  "By  being  a  professed  liber- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOX.      71 

tine;  by  having  but  too  successfully  practised  the 
arts  of  seduction  ;  by  triumphing  in  the  destruction 
of  innocence  and  the  peace  of  families."  "  O, 
why  was  I  not  informed  of  this  before  ?  But 
perhaps  these  are  old  affairs  —  the  effects  of  juvenile 
folly  — crimes  of  which  he  may  have  repented,  and 
which  charity  ought  to  obliterate."  "  No,  my  dear, 
they  are  recent  facts  —  facts  which  he  dares  not 
deny  —  facts  for  which  he  ought  to  be  banished 
from  all  virtuous  society.  I  should  have  intimated 
this  to  you  before ;  but  your  precipitate  acceptance 
of  his  invitation  deprived  me  of  an  opportunity 
until  it  was  too  late  to  prevent  your  going  with 
him ;  and  we  thought  it  best  to  protract  your  en 
joyment  as  long  as  possible,  not  doubting  but  your 
virtue  and  delicacy  would,  in  future,  guard  you 
against  the  like  deception." 

"  Must  I,  then,  become  an  avowed  prude  at 
once,  and  refuse  him  admission  if  he  call  in  com 
pliance  with  the  customary  forms  ?  "  "  By  no 
means.  I  am  sensible  that  even  the  false  maxims 
of  the  world  must  be  complied  with  in  a  degree. 
But  a  man  of  Major  Sanford's  art  can  easily  dis 
tinguish  between  a  forbidding  and  an  encouraging 
reception.  The  former  may,  in  this  o,ase,  be  given 
without  any  breach  of  the  rules  of  politeness." 
Astonished  and  mortified,  I  knew  not  what  further 


72  THE   COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

to  say.  I  had  been  so  pleased  with  the  man  that 
I  wished  to  plead  in  his  favor;  but  virtue  and  pru 
dence  forbade.  I  therefore  rose  and  retired.  He 
is  this  moment,  I  am  told,  below  stairs ;  so  that  J 
must  bid  you  adieu  until  the  next  post. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    X. 

To    THE    SAME. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Upon  closing  my  last,  I  walked  down,  and 
found  Major  Sanford  alone.  He  met  me  at  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  and,  taking  my  hand  with  an 
air  of  affectionate  tenderness,  led  me  to  a  seat,  and 
took  one  beside  me.  I  believe  the  gloom  of  sus 
picion  had  not  entirely  forsaken  my  brow.  He 
appeared,  however,  not  to  notice  it,  but,  after  the 
compliments  of  the  day  had  passed,  entered  into 
an  easy  and  agreeable  conversation  on  the  pleas 
ures  of  society  —  a  conversation  perfectly  adapted 
to  my  taste,  and  calculated  to  dissipate  my  cha 
grin  and  pass  the  time  imperceptibly.  He  inquired 
the  place  of  my  native  abode;  and,  having  in 
formed  him,  he  said  he  had  thoughts  of  purchasing 
the  seat  of  Captain  Pribble,  in  that  neighborhood, 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      73 

for  his  residence  ;  and  could  he  be  assured  of  my  so 
ciety  and  friendship,  his  resolution  would  be  fixed. 
I  answered  his  compliment  only  by  a  slight  bow. 
He  took  leave,  and  I  retired  to  dress  for  the  day, 
being  engaged  to  accompany  my  cousin  to  dine  at 
Mr.  Lawrence's  —  a  gentleman  of  fortune  and  fash 
ion  in  this  vicinity.  Mr.  Lawrence  has  but  one 
daughter,  heiress  to  a  large  estate,  with  an  agree 
able  form,  but  a  countenance  which,  to  me,  indi 
cates  not  much  soul.  I  was  surprised  in  the  after 
noon  to  see  Major  Sanford  alight  at  the  gate. 
He  entered  with  the  familiarity  of  an  old  acquaint 
ance,  and,  after  accosting  each  of  the  company, 
told  me,  with  a  low  bow,  that  he  did  not  expect 
the  happiness  of  seeing  me  again  so  soon.  I  re 
ceived  his  compliment  with  a  conscious  awkward 
ness.  Mrs.  Richman's  morning  lecture  still  rang 
ia  my  head ;  and  her  watchful  eye  now  traced 
every  turn  of  mine  and  every  action  of  the  major's. 
Indeed,  his  assiduity  was  painful  to  me  ;  yet  I 
found  it  impossible  to  disengage  myself  a  moment 
from  him,  till  the  close  of  the  day  brought  our 
carriage  to  the  door ;  when  he  handed  me  in,  and, 
pressing  my  hand  to  his  lips,  retired. 

What  shall  I  say  about  this  extraordinary  man  ? 
Shall  I  own  to  you,  my  friend,  that  he  is  pleasing 
to  me?  His  person,  his  manners,  his  situation,  all 


74  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

combine  to  charm  my  fancy,  and,  to  my  lively 
imagination,  strew  the  path  of  life  with  flowers. 
What  a  pity,  my  dear  Lucy,  that  the  graces  and 
virtues  are  not  oftener  united  !  They  must,  how 
ever,  meet  in  the  man  of  my  choice  ;  and  till  I  find 
such  u  one,  I  shall  continue  to  subscribe  my  name 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XI. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Well,  Charles,  I  have  been  manoeuvring  to 
day  a  little  revengefully.  That,  you  will  say,  is 
out  of  character.  So  baleful  &  passion  does  not 
easily  find  admission  among  those  softer  ones 
which  you  well  know  I  cherish.  However,  I  am  a 
mere  Proteus,  and  can  assume  any  shape  that  will 
best  answer  rny  purpose. 

I  called  this  afternoon,  as  I  told  you  I  intended, 
at  General  Richman's.  I  waited  some  time  in 
the  parlor  alone  before  Eliza  appeared  ;  and  when 
she  did  appear,  the  distant  reserve  of  her  manners 
and  the  pensiveness  of  her  countenance  convinced 
me  that  she  had  been  vexed,  and  I  doubted  not 
but  Peter  Sanford  was  the  occasion.  Her  wise 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.      75 

cousin,  I  could  have  sworn,  had  been  giving  her  a 
detail  of  the  vices  of  her  gallant,  and  warning  her 
against  the  dangers  of  associating  with  him  in 
future.  Notwithstanding,  I  took  no  notice  of  any 
alteration  in  her  behavior,  but  entered  with  the 
utmost  facetiousness  into  a  conversation  which  I 
thought  most  to  her  taste.  By  degrees  she  as- 

«/ 

sumed  her  risual  vivacity;  cheerfulness  and  good 
humor  again  animated  her  countenance.  I  tarried 
as  long  as  decency  would  admit.  She  having  in 
timated  that  they  were  to  dine  at  my  friend  Law 
rence's,  I  caught  at  this  information,  and  deter 
mined  to  follow  them,  and  tease  the  jealous  Mrs. 
Richman  by  playing  off  all  the  gallantry  I  was 
master  of  in  her  presence. 

I  went,  and  succeeded  to  the  utmost  of  my 
wishes,  as  I  read  in  the  vexation  visible  in  the  one, 
and  the  ease  and  attention  displayed  by  the  other. 
I  believe,  too,  that  I  have  charmed  the  eye,  at  least, 
of  the  amiable  Eliza.  Indeed,  Charles,  she  is  a 
fine  girl.  I  think  it  would  hurt  my  conscience  to 
wound  her  mind  or  reputation.  Were  I  disposed 
to  marry,  I  am  persuaded  she  would  make  an  ex 
cellent  wife  ;  but  that,  you  know,  is  no  part  of  my 
plan,  so  long  as  I  can  keep  out  of  the  noose. 
Whenever  I  do  submit  to  be  shackled,  it  must  be 
from  a  necessity  of  mending  my  fortune.  This 


76  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

gir]  wouid  be  fur  from  doing  that.  However,  I  am 
pleased  with  her  acquaintance,  and  mean  not  to 
abuse  her  credulity  and  good  nature,  if  I  can  help  it. 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LETTER    XII. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

The  heart  of  your  friend  is  again  besieged. 
Whether  it  will  surrender  to  the  assailants  or  not 
I  am  unable  at  present  to  determine.  Sometimes 
I  think  of  becoming  a  predestinarian,  and  submit 
ting  implicitly  to  fate,  without  any  exercise  of  free 
will ;  but,  as  mine  seerns  to  be  a  wayward  one,  I 
would  counteract  the  operations  of  it,  if  possible. 

Mrs.  Richman  told  me  this  morning  that  she 
hoped  I  should  be  as  agreeably  entertained  this 
afternoon  as  I  had  been  the  preceding;  that  she 
expected  Mr.  Boyer  to  dine  and  take  tea,  and 
doubted  not  but  he  would  be  as  attentive  and  sin 
cere  to  me,  if  not  as  gay  and  polite,  as  the  gentle 
man  who  obtruded  his  civilities  yesterday.  I 
replied  that  I  had  no  reason  to  doubt  the  sincerity 
of  the  one  or  the  other,  having  never  put  them  to 
the  test,  nor  did  I  imagine  I  ever  should.  "  Your 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON".      77 

friends,  Eliza,"  said  she,  "  would  be  very  happy  to 
see  you  united  to  a  man  of  Mr.  Boyer's  worth, 
and  so  agreeably  settled  as  he  has  a  prospect  of 
being."  "  I  hope,"  said  T,  "  that  my  friends  are 
not  so  weary  of  my  company  as  to  wish  to  dis 
pose  of  me.  I  am  too  happy  in  my  present  con 
nections  to  quit  them  for  new  ones.  Marriage  is 
the  tomb  of  friendship.  It  appears  to  me  a  very 
selfish  state.  Why  do  people  in  general,  as  soon 
as  they  are  married,  centre  all  their  cares,  their 
concerns,  and  pleasures  in  their  own  families  ? 
Former  acquaintances  are  neglected  or  forgotten ; 
the  tenderest  ties  between  friends  are  weakened 
or  dissolved  ;  and  benevolence  itself  moves  in  a 
very  limited  sphere."  "  It  is  the  glory  of  the  mar 
riage  state,"  she  rejoined,  "  to  refine  by  circum 
scribing  our  enjoyments.  Here  we  can  reoose  in 
safety. 

'  The  friendships  of  the  world  are  oft 
Confed'racies  in  vice,  or  leagues  in  pleasure : 
Ours  has  the  purest  virtue  for  its  basis  ; 
And  such  a  friendship  ends  not  but  with  life.' 

True,  we  cannot  always  pay  that  attention  to 
former  associates  which  we  may  wish ;  but  the 
little  community  which  we  superintend  is  quite 
as  important  an  object,  and  certainly  renders  us 
more  beneficial  to  the  public.  True  benevolence, 


78  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

though  it  may  change  its  objects,  is  not  limited 
by  time  or  place.  Its  effects  are  the  same,  and, 
aided  by  a  second  self,  arc  rendered  more  diffusive 
and  salutary." 

Some  pleasantry  passed,  and  we  retired  to  dress. 
When  summoned  to  dinner,  I  found  Mr.  Boyer 
below.  If  what  is  sometimes  said  be  true,  that 
love  is  diffident,  reserved,  and  unassuming,  this 
man  must  be  tinctured  with  it.  These  symptoms 
were  visible  in  his  deportment  when  I  entered  the 
room.  However,  he  soon  recovered  himself,  and 
the  conversation  took  a  general  turn.  The  festive 
board  was  crowned  with  sociability,  and  we  found 
in  reality  "  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of 
soul."  After  we  rose  from  table,  a  walk  in  the 
garden  was  proposed  —  an  amusement  we  are 
all  peculiarly  fond  of.  Mr.  Boyer  offered  me  his 
arm.  When  at  a  sufficient  distance  from  our 
company,  he  begged  leave  to  congratulate  him 
self  on  having  an  opportunity,  which  he  had 
ardently  desired  for  some  time,  of  declaring  to 
me  his  attachment,  and  of  soliciting  an  interest 
in  my  favor ;  or,  if  he  might  be  allowed  the  term, 
affection.  I  replied,  "  That,  sir,  is  indeed  laying 
claim  to  an  important  interest.  I  believe  you 
must  substitute  some  more  indifferent  epithet  for 
the  present."  "  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "  if  it  must 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.      79 

be  so,  let  it  be  esteem  or  friendship."  "  Indeed, 
sir,"  said  I,  "  you  are  entitled  to  them  both.  Merit 
has  always  a  share  in  that  bank ;  and  I  know  of 
none  who  lias  a  larger  claim  on  that  score  than 
Mr.  Boyer."  I  suppose  my  manner  was  hardly 
serious  enough  for  what  he  considered  a  weighty 
cause.  He  was  a  little  disconcerted,  but,  soon  re 
gaining  his  presence  of  mind,  entreated  me,  with 
an  air  of  earnestness,  to  encourage  his  suit,  to  ad 
mit  his  addresses,  and,  if  possible,  to  reward  his 
love,  I  told  him  that  this  was  rather  a  sudden 
affair  to  me,  and  that  I  could  not  answer  him 
without  consideration.  "  Well,  then,"  said  he, 
"  take  what  time  you  think  proper ;  only  relieve  my 
suspense  as  soon  as  may  be.  Shall  I  visit  you  again 
to-morrow  ?  "  "  O,  not  so  soon,"  said  I ;  "  next  Mon 
day,  I  believe,  will  be  early  enough.  I  will  endeavor 
to  be  at  home."  He  thanked  me  even  for  that  favor, 
recommended  himself  once  more  to  my  kindness, 
and  we  walked  towards  the  company,  returned 
with  them  to  the  house,  and  he  soon  took  leave.  I 
immediately  retired  to  write  this  letter,  which  I 
shall  close  without  a  single  observation  on  the  sub 
ject  until  I  know  your  opinion. 

ELJZA  WHARTON. 


80  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THK 

LETTER    XIII. 
To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HARTFORD. 

And  so  you  wish  to  have  my  opinion  before  you 
know  the  result  of  your  own. 

This  is  playing  a  little  too  much  with  my  pa 
tience  ;  but,  however,  I  will  gratify  you  this  once, 
in  hopes  that  my  epistle  may  have  a  good  effect. 
You  will  ask,  perhaps,  whether  I  would  influence 
your  judgment.  I  answer,  No,  provided  you  will 
exercise  it  yourself;  but  I  am  a  little  apprehensive 
that  your  fancy  will  mislead  you.  Methinks  I  can 
gather  from  your  letters  a  predilection  for  this  Ma 
jor  Sanford.  But  he  is  a  rake,  my  dear  friend  ;  and 
can  a  lady  of  your  delicacy  and  refinement  think 
of  forming  a  connection  with  a  man  of  that  char 
acter  ?  I  hope  not ;  nay,  I  am  confident  you  do 
not.  You  mean  only  to  exhibit  a  few  more  girlish 
airs  before  you  turn  matron ;  but  I  am  persuaded, 
if  you  wish  to  lead  down  the  dance  of  life  with 
regularity,  you  will  not  find  a  more  excellent  part 
ner  than  Mr.  Boyer.  Whatever  you  can  reasonably 
expect  in  a  lover,  husband,  or  friend,  you  may  per 
ceive  to  be  united  in  this  worthy  man.  His  taste  is 
undebauched,  his  manners  not  vitiated,  his  morals 
uncorrupted.  His  situation  in  life  is,  perhaps,  as 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA  WHARTON.      81 

elevated  as  you  have  a  right  to  claim.  Forgive 
my  plainness,  Eliza.  It  is  the  task  of  friendship, 
sometimes,  to  tell  disagreeable  truths.  I  know 
your  ambition  is  to  make  a  distinguished  figure  in 
the  first  class  of  polished  society,  to  shine  in  the 
gay  circle  of  fashionable  amusements,  and  to  bear 
off  the  palm  amidst  the  votaries  of  pleasure.  But 
these  are  fading  honors,  unsatisfactory  enjoy 
ments,  incapable  of  gratifying  those  immortal 
principles  of  reason  and  religion  which  have  been 
implanted  in  your  rnind  by  Nature,  assiduously 
cultivated  by  the  best  of  parents,  and  exerted,  I 
trust,  by  yourself.  Let  me  advise  you,  then,  in 
conducting  this  affair,  —  an  affair  big,  perhaps,  with 
your  future  fate,  —  to  lay  aside  those  coquettish  airs 
which  you  sometimes  put  on  ;  and  remember  that 
you  are  not  dealing  with  a  fop,  who  will  take  ad 
vantage  of  every  concession,  but  with  a  man  of 
sense  and  honor,  who  will  properly  estimate  your 
condescension  and  frankness.  Act,  then,  with  that 
modest  freedom,  that  dignified  unreserve,  which  be 
speak  conscious  rectitude  and  sincerity  of  heart. 

I  shall  be  extremely  anxious  to  hear  the  process 
and  progress  of  this  business.  Relieve  my  impa 
tience  as  soon  as  possible  ;  and  believe  me  yours 
with  undissembled  affection. 

LUCY  FREEMAN. 


THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

LETTER    XIV. 

To   Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  have  received,  and  read  again  and  again,  your 
friendly  epistle.  My  reason  and  judgment  entirely 
coincide  with  your  opinion ;  but  my  fancy  claims 
some  share  in  the  decision  ;  and  I  cannot  yet  tell 
which  will  preponderate.  This  was  the  day  fixed  for 
deciding  Mr.  Boyer's  cause.  My  friends  here  gave 
me  a  long  dissertation  on  his  merits.  Your  let 
ter,  likewise,  had  its  weight;  and  I  was  candidly 
summoning  up  the  pros  and  cons  in  the  garden, 
whither  I  had  walked,  (General  Rich  man  and  lady 
having  rode  out,)  when  I  was  informed  that  he  was 
waiting  in  the  parlor.  I  went  immediately  in,  (a 
good  symptom,  you  will  say,)  and  received  him 
very  graciously.  After  the  first  compliments  were 
over,  he  seemed  eager  to  improve  the  opportunity  to 
enter  directly  on  the  subject  of  his  present  visit.  It  is 
needless  for  me  to  recite  to  you,  who  have  long  been 
acquainted  with  the  whole  process  of  courtship,  the 
declarations,  propositions,  protestations,  entreaties, 
looks,  words,  and  actions  of  a  lover.  They  are,  I  be 
lieve,  much  the  same  in  the  whole  sex,  allowing  for 
their  different  dispositions,  educations,  and  charac 
ters;  but  you  are  impatient,  I  know,  for  the  conclusion. 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      83 

You  have  hastily  perused  the  preceding  lines,  and 
are  straining  your  eye  forward  to  my  part  of  the 
farce  ;  for  such  it  may  prove,  after  all.  Well,  then, 
not  to  play  too  long  with  the  curiosity  which  I 
know  to  be  excited  and  actuated  by  real  friend 
ship,  I  will  relieve  it.  I  think  you  would  have  been 
pleased  to  have  seen  my  gravity  on  this  important 
occasion.  With  all  the  candor  and  frankness 
which  I  was  capable  of  assuming,  I  thus  answered 
his  long  harangue,  to  which  I  had  listened  with 
out  interrupting  him :  "  Self-knowledge,  sir,  that 
most  important  of  all  sciences,  I  have  yet  to  learn. 
Such  have  been  my  situations  in  life,  and  the  nat 
ural  volatility  of  my  temper,  that  I  have  looked 
but  little  into  my  own  heart  in  regard  to  its  future 
wishes  and  views.  From  a  scene  of  constraint  and 
confinement,  ill  suited  to  my  years  and  inclination, 
I  have  just  launched  into  society.  My  heart  beats 
high  in  expectation  of  its  fancied  joys.  My  san 
guine  imagination  paints,  in  alluring  colors,  the 
charms  of  youth  and  freedom,  regulated  by  virtue 
and  innocence.  Of  these  I  wish  to  partake. 
While  I  own  myself  under  obligations  for  the 
esteem  which  you  are  pleased  to  profess  for  me, 
and,  in  return,  acknowledge  that  neither  your  per 
son  nor  manners  are  disagreeable  to  me,  I  recoil 
at  the  thought  of  immediately  forming  a  connec- 


84  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,    THE 

tion  which  must  confine  me  to  the  duties  of  do 
mestic  life,  and  make  me  dependent  for  happiness, 
perhaps,  too,  for  subsistence,  upon  a  class  of  peo 
ple  who  will  claim  the  right  of  scrutinizing  every 
part  of  my  conduct,  and,  by  censuring  those  foi 
bles  which  I  am  conscious  of  not  having  prudence 
to  avoid,  may  render  me  completely  miserable. 
While,  therefore,  I  receive  your  visits,  and  culti 
vate  towards  you  sentiments  of  friendship  and 
esteem,  I  would  not  have  you  consider  me  as 
confined  to  your  society,  or  obligated  to  a  future 
connection.  Our  short  acquaintance  renders  it 
impossible  for  me  to  decide  what  the  operations 
of  my  mind  may  hereafter  be.  You  must  either 
quit  the  subject,  or  leave  me  to  the  exercise  of  my 
free  will,  which,  perhaps,  may  coincide  with  your 
present  wishes."  "  Madam,"  said  he, "  far  is  the  wish 
from  me  to  restrain  your  person  or  mind.  In  your 
breast  I  will  repose  my  cause.  It  shall  be  my 
study  to  merit  a  return  of  affection ;  and  I  doubt 
not  but  generosity  and  honor  will  influence  your 
conduct  towards  me.  I  expect  soon  to  settle 
among  a  generous  and  enlightened  people,  where 
I  flatter  myself  I  shall  be  exempt  from  those  dif 
ficulties  and  embarrassments  to  which  too  many 
of  my  brethren  are  subject.  The  local  situation  is 
agreeable,  the  society  refined  and  polished ;  and 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF  ELIZA   WHARTON.      86 

if,  in  addition,  I  may  obtain  that  felicity  which  you 
are  formed  to  bestow  in  a  family  connection,  I 
shall  be  happy  indeed." 

He  spoke  with  emphasis.  The  tear  of  sensibil 
ity  sparkled  in  his  eye.  I  involuntarily  gave  him  my 
hand,  which  he  pressed  with  ardor  to  his  lips ; 
then,  rising,  he  walked  to  the  window  to  conceal 
his  emotion.  I  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  tea, 
during  and  after  which  we  shared  that  social  con 
verse  which  is  the  true  zest  of  life,  and  in  which  I  am 
persuaded  none  but  virtuous  minds  can  participate. 
General  Richman  and  lady  returned  with  the 
shades  of  the  evening.  The  penetrating  eye  of 
my  cousin  traced  in  our  countenances  the  progress 
of  the  cause,  and  the  smile  of  approbation  animat 
ed  hers.  Mr.  Boyer  asked  the  favor  of  my  com 
pany  to  ride  to-morrow  morning;  which  was 
granted.  He  tarried  to  supper,  and  took  his  leave. 
1  retired  immediately  to  my  chamber,  to  which  I 
was  followed  by  Mrs.  Richman.  I  related  to  her 
the  conversation  and  the  encouragement  which  I 
had  given  to  Mr.  Boyer.  She  was  pleased,  but 
insisted  that  I  should  own  myself  somewhat  en 
gaged  to  him.  This,  I  told  her,  I  should  never  do 
to  any  man  before '  the  indissoluble  knot  was  tied. 
"  That,"  said  I,  "  will  be  time  enough  to  resign  my 
freedom."  She  replied,  that  I  had  wrong  ideas  of 


.  86  /  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

freedom  and  matrimony;  but  she  hoped  that  Mr. 
Boyer  would  happily  rectify  them. 

I  have  now,  my  dear  friend,  given  you  an  ac 
count  of  my  present  situation,  and  leave  you  to 
judge  for  yourself  concerning  it.  Write  me  your 
opinion,  and  believe  me  ever  yours, 

ELIZA   WHARTON. 


LETTER    XV. 

To   Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HARTTORD. 

I  congratulate  you,  my  dear  Eliza,  on  the  sta 
bility  of  your  conduct  towards  Mr.  Boyer.  Pur-' 
sue  the  system  which  you  have  adopted,  and  I 
dare  say  that  happiness  will  crown  your  future 
days.  You  are  indeed  very  tenacious  of  your 
freedom,  as  you  call  it ;  but  that  is  a  play  about 
words.  A  man  of  Mr.  Beyer's  honor  and  good 
sense  will  never  abridge  any  privileges  which  vir 
tue  can  claim. 

When  do  you  return  to  embellish  our  society 
here  ?  I  am  impatient  to  see  you,  and  likewise 
this  amiable  man.  I  am  much  interested  in  his 
favor.  By  the  way,  I  am  told  that  Major  Sanford 
has  been  to  look  at  the  seat  of  Captain  Pribble, 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OP   ELIZA   WHARTON,      87 

which  is  upon  sale.  It  is  reported  that  he  will 
probably  purchase  it.  Many  of  our  gentry  are 
pleased  with  the  prospect  of  such  a  neighbor. 
"  As  an  accomplished  gentleman,"  say  they, 
"  he  will  be  an  agreeable  addition  to  our  social 
parties ;  and  as  a  ma_n  of  property  and  public 
spirit,  he  will  be  an  advantage  to  the  town." 
But  from  what  I  have  heard  of  him,  I  am  far  from 
supposing  him  a  desirable  acquisition  in  either  of 
these  respects.  A  man  of  a  vicious  character  can 
not  be  a  good  member  of  society.  In  order  to 
that,  his  principles  and  practice  must  be  uncor- 
rupted  ;  in  his  morals,  at  least,  he  must  be  a  man 
of  probity  and  honor.  Of  these  qualifications,  if  I 
mistake  not,  this  gallant  of  yours  cannot  boast. 
But  I  shall  not  set  up  for  a  censor.  I  hope  neither 
you  nor  I  shall  have  much  connection  with  him. 
My  swain  interests  himself  very  much  in  your 
affairs.  You  will  possibly  think  him  impertinent; 
but  I  give  his  curiosity  a  softer  name.  Should  I 
own  to  you  that  I  place  great  confidence  in  his 
integrity  and  honor,  you  would,  perhaps,  laugh  at 
my  weakness ;  but,  my  dear,  I  have  pride  enough 
to  keep  me  above  coquetry  or  prudery,  and  dis 
cretion  enough,  I  hope,  to  secure  me  from  the  er 
rors  of  both.  With  him  I  am  determined  to  walk 
the  future  round  of  life.  What  folly,  then,  would 


THE   COQUEtTE  ;    OB,   THE 

it  be  to  affect  reserve  and  distance  relative  to  an 
affair  in  which  I  have  so  much  interest!  Not  that 
I  am  going  to  betray  your  secrets ;  these  I  have 
no  right  to  divulge  ;  but  I  must  be  the  judge  what 
may,  and  what  may  not,  be  communicated.  I  am 
very  much  pressed  for  an  early  day  of  consumma 
tion  ;  but  I  shall  not  listen  to  a  request  of  that 
kind  till  your  return.  Such  is  my  regard  for  you, 
that  a  union  of  love  would  be  imperfect  if  friend 
ship  attended  not  the  rites.  Adieu. 

LUCY  FREEMAN. 


LETTER    XVI. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

We  go  on  charmingly  here,  almost  as  soft  and 
smooth  as  your  ladyship.  It  seems  to  me  that 
love  must  stagnate  if  it  have  not  a  light  breeze  of 
discord  once  in  a  while  to  keep  it  in  motion.  We 
have  not  tried  any  yet,  however.  We  had  a  lovely 
tour  this  forenoon,  were  out  three  long  hours,  and 
returned  to  dinner  in  perfect  harmony. 

Mr.  Boyer  informed  me  that  he  should  set  out 
to-morrow  morning  for  his  future  residence,  and 
soon  put  on  the  sacred  bands.  He  solicited  an 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      89 

epistolary  correspondence,  at  the  same  time,  as  an 
alleviation  of  the  care  which  that  weighty  charge 
would  bring  on  his .  mind.  1  consented,  telling 
him  that  he  must  not  expect  any  thing  more  than 
general  subjects  from  me. 

We  were  somewhat  interrupted  in, our  confiden 
tial  intercourse,  in  the  afternoon,  by  the  arrival  of 
Major  Sanford.  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  not  agree 
ably  relieved.  So  sweet  a  repast,  for  several  hours 
together,  was  rather  sickening  to  my  taste.  My 
inamorato  looked  a  little  mortified  at  the  cheer 
ful  reception  which  I  gave  the  intruder,  and  joined 
not  so  placidly  in  the  social  conversation  as  1 
could  have  wished. 

When  Mr.  Boyer,  after  the  major  took  leave, 
pressed  me  to  give  him  some  assurance  of  my 
constancy,  I  only  reminded  him  of  the  terms  of 
our  engagement.  Seeing  me  decided,  he  was 
silent  on  the  subject,  and  soon  bade  me  an  affec 
tionate  adieu,  not  expecting,  as  he  told  me,  the 
pleasure  of  a  personal  interview  again  for  two  or 
three  months. 

Thus  far  we  have  proceeded  in  this  sober  busi 
ness.  A  good  beginning,  you  will  say.  Perhaps 
it  is.  I  do  not,  however,  feel  myself  greatly  inter 
ested  in  the  progress  of  the  negotiation.  Time 
may  consolidate  my  affections,  and  enable  me  to 


90  THE   COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

fix  them  on  some  particular  object.  At  present 
the  most  lively  emotions  of  my  heart  are  those  of 
friendship,  that  friendship  which  I  hope  you  will 
soon  participate  with  your  faithful 

ELIZA  WUARTON. 


LETTER    XVII. 

To  MR.  SELBY. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  have  succeeded  in  my  addresses  to  the  lovely 
Eliza  Wharton  —  as  far,  at  least,  as  I  had  any 
reason  to  expect  from  our  short  acquaintance.  I 
find  the  graces  of  her  person  and  mind  rise  in  my 
esteem,  and*  have  already  enjoyed  in  her  society 
some  of  the  happiest  hours  of  my  life.  She  is 
kind,  affable,  and  condescending ;  yet  I  must  own 
that  I  have  not  been  able  to  infuse  into  her  bosom 
the  ardor  which  I  feel  in  my  own.  I  know  that 
the  native  modesty  of  the  sex  would  restrain  the 
discovery;  but  there  is  an  animation  of  counte 
nance,  which  betrays  the  sensations  of  the  heart, 
that  I  find  wanting  in  hers  on  this  occasion. 

I  have  just  taken  leave  of  my  fair,  and  propose 
returning  to-morrow  morning  to  take  upon  me  the 
solemn  charge  which  lies  with  such  weight  upon 


LIFE  AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAKTON.      91 

my  mind  that  I  need  every  support,  both  human 
and  divine.  Eliza  has  promised  to  correspond 
with  me.  .  From  this  I  anticipate  a  source  of 
pleasure  which  alone  can  atone  for  her  absence. 

I  am,  &c., 

J.    BOYER. 


LETTER    XVIII. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Do  you  know,  Charles,  that  I  have  commenced 
lover  ?  I  was  always  a  general  one,  but  now  I  am 
somewhat  particular.  I  shall  be  the  more  inter 
ested,  as  I  am  likely  to  meet  with  difficulties ;  and 
it  is  the  glory  of  a  rake,  as  well  as  of  a  Christian, 
to  combat  obstacles.  This  same  Eliza,  of  whom 
I  have  told  you,  has  really  made  more  impression 
on  my  heart  than  I  was  aware  of,  or  than  the  sex, 
take  them  as  they  rise,  are  wont  to  do.  But  she 
is  besieged  by  a  priest  —  a  likely  lad  though.  I 
know  not  how  it  is,  but  they  are  commonly  suc 
cessful  with  the  girls,  even  the  gayest  of  them. 
This  one,  too,  has  the  interest  of  all  her  friends,  as 
I  am  told.  I  called  yesterday  at  General  Rich- 
man's,  and  found  this  pair  together,  apparently  too 


92  THE   COQUETTE;   OB,   THE 

happy  in  each  other's  society  for  my  wishes.  I 
must  own  that  I  felt  a  glow  of  jealousy,  which  I 
never  experienced  before,  and  vowed  revenge  for 
the  pain  it  gave  me,  though  but  momentary.  Yet 
Eliza's  reception  of  me  was  visibly  cordial ;  nay, 
I  fancied  my  company  as  pleasing  to  her  as  that 
which  she  had  before.  I  tarried  not  long,  but  left 
him  to  the  enjoyment  of  that  pleasure  which  I 
flatter  myself  will  be  but  shortlived.  O,  I  have 
another  plan  in  my  head  —  a  plan  of  necessity, 
which,  you  know,  is  the  mother  of  invention.  It 
is  this :  I  am  very  much  courted  and  caressed  by 
the  family  of  Mr.  Lawrence,  a  man  of  large  prop 
erty  in  this  neighborhood.  He  has  only  one  child 
—  a  daughter,  with  whom  I  imagine  the  old  folks 
intend  to  shackle  me  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony. 
The  girl  looks  very  well ;  she  has  no  soul,  though, 
that  I  can  discover ;  she  is  heiress,  nevertheless, 
to  a  great  fortune,  and  that  is  all  the  soul  I  wish 
for  in  a  wife.  In  truth,  Charles,  I  know  of  no 
other  way  to  mend  my  circumstances.  Bat  lisp 
not  a  word  of  my  embarrassments  for  your  life. 
Show  and  equipage  are  my  hobby  horse ;  and  if 
any  female  wishes  to  share  them  with  me,  and 
will  furnish  me  with  the  means  of  supporting 
them,  I  have  no  objection.  Could  I  conform  to 
the  sober  rules  of  wedded  life,  and  renounce  those 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  ELIZA  WHARTON.      93 

dear  enjoyments  of  dissipation  in  which  I  have 
so  long  indulged,  I  know  not  the  lady  in  the 
world  with  whom  I  would  sooner  form  a  connec 
tion  of  this  sort  than  with  Eliza  "Wharton.  But 
it  will  never  do.  If  my  fortune  or  hers  were  better, 
I  would  risk  a  union  ;  but  as  they  are,  no  idea  of  the 
kind  can  be  admitted.  I  shall  endeavor,  notwith 
standing,  to  enjoy  her  company  as  long  as  possible. 
Though  I  cannot  possess  her  wholly  myself,  I 
will  not  tamely  see  her  the  property  of  another. 

I  am  now  going  to  call  at  General  Richman's,  in 
hopes  of  an  opportunity  to  profess  my  devotion  to 
her.  I  know  I  am  not  a  welcome  visitor  to  the 
family ;  but  I  am  independent  of  their  censure  or 
esteem,  and  mean  to  act  accordingly. 

PETER  SAN  FORD. 


LETTER    XIX. 

To   Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  find  the  ideas  of  sobriety  and  domestic  soli 
tude  I  have  been  cultivating  for  three  days  past 
somewhat  deranged  by  the  interruption  of  a  vis 
itor,  with  whom  I  know  you  will  not  be  pleased. 
It  is  no  other  than  Major  Sanford.  I  was  walk- 


94  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR  THE 

ing  alone  in  the  garden  yesterday,  when  he  sud 
denly  appeared  to  my  view.  "  How  happy  am  I," 
said  he,  seizing  my  hand,  "  in  this  opportunity  of 
finding  you  alone  —  an  opportunity,  Miss  Wharton, 
which  I  must  improve  in  expatiating  on  a  theme 
that  fills  my  heart  and  solely  animates  my  frame ! " 
Twas  startled  at  his  impetuosity,  and  displeased 
with  his  freedom.  Withdrawing  my  hand,  I 
told  him  that  my  retirement  was  sacred.  He 
bowed  submissively ;  begged  pardon  for  his  intru 
sion  ;  alleged  that  he  found  nobody  but  the  ser 
vants  in  the  house;  that  they  informed  him  I  was 
alone  in  the  garden  —  which  intelligence  was  too 
pleasing  for  him  to  consult  any  forms  of  ceremony 
for  the  regulation  of  his  conduct.  He  then  went 
on  rhapsodically  to  declare  his  passion ;  his  sus 
picions  that  I  was  forming  a  connection  with  Mr. 
Boyer,  which  would  effectually  destroy  all  his  hopes 
of  future  happiness.  He  painted  the  restraint, 
the  confinement,  the  embarrassments  to  which  a 
woman  connected  with  a  man  of  Mr.  Boyer' s  pro 
fession  must  be  subjected,  however  agreeable  his 
person  might  be.  He  asked  if  my  generous  mind 
could  submit  to  cares  and  perplexities  like  these  ; 
whether  I  could  not  find  greater  sources  of  en 
joyment  in  a  more  elevated  sphere  of  life,  or  share 
pleasures  better  suited  to  my  genius  and  di.spo- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.      95 

sition,  even  in  a  single  state.  I  listened  to  him 
involuntarily.  My  heart  did  not  approve  his  sen 
timents  ;  but  my  ear  was  charmed  with  his  rhetoric, 
and  my  fancy  captivated  by  his  address. 

He  invited  my  confidence  by  the  most  ardent 
professions  of  friendship,  and  labored  to  remove  my 
suspicions  by  vows  of  sincerity.  I  was  induced 
by  his  importunity  gradually  to  disclose  the  state  of 
affairs  between  Mr.  Boyer  and  myself.  He  listened 
eagerly ;  wished  not,  he  said,  to  influence  me  un 
duly  ;  but  if  I  were  not  otherwise  engaged,  might 
he  presume  to  solicit  a  place  in  my  friendship  and 
esteem,  be  admitted  to  enjoy  my  society,  to  visit  me 
as  an  acquaintance,  and  to  attend  my  excursions 
and  amusements  as  a  brother,  if  not  more  ?  I 
replied  that  I  was  a  pensioner  of  friendship  at 
present ;  that  friends  were  extremely  refined  in 
their  notions  of  propriety ;  and  that  I  had  no 
right  to  receive  visitants  independent  of  them.  "  I 
understand  you,  madam,"  said  he.  "  You  inti 
mate  that  my  company  is  not  agreeable  to  them ; 
but  I  know  not  why.  Surely  my  rank  in  life  is  as 
elevated,  and  my  knowledge  of  and  acceptance  in 
the  world  arc  as  extensive,  as  General  Richman's." 
"  I  hope,"  said  I,  "  since  we  are  engaged  in  the 
conversation,  that  you  will  excuse  my  frankness 
if  I  tell  you  that  the  understanding  and  virtue  of 


96  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

this  worthy  couple  induce  them,  without  any  re 
gard  to  rank,  to  bestow  their  esteem  wherever  it  is 
merited.  I  cannot  say  that  you  are  not  a  sharer. 
Your  own  heart  can  best  determine  whether  upon 
their  principles  you  are  or  not."  He  appeared 
mortified  and  chagrined  ;  and  we  had  walked 
some  distance  without  exchanging  a  word  or  a 
look.  At  last  he  rejoined,  "  I  plead  guilty  to  the 
charge,  madam,  which  they  have  undoubtedly 
brought  against  me,  of  imprudence  and  folly  in 
many  particulars  ;  yet  of  malignancy  and  vice  I 
am  innocent.  Brought  up  in  affluence,  inured 
from  my  infancy  to  the  gratification  of  every  pas 
sion,  the  indulgence  of  every  wish,  it  is  not  strange 
that  a  life  of  dissipation  and  gayety  should  prove 
alluring  to  a  youthful  mind  which  had  no  care  but 
to  procure  what  is  deemed  enjoyment.  In  this 
pursuit  I  have,  perhaps,  deviated  from  the  rigid 
rules  of  discretion  and  the  harsher  laws  of  morality. 
But  let  the  veil  of  charity  be  drawn  over  my 
faults ;  let  the  eye  of  candor  impartially  examine 
my  present  behavior ;  let  the  kind  and  lenient 
hand  of  friendship  assist  in  directing  my  future 
steps;  and  perhaps  I  may  not  prove  unworthy 
of  associating  with  the  respectable  inhabitants  of 
this  happy  mansion ;  for  such  I  am  sure  it  must 
be  while  honored  with  Miss  Wharton's  presence. 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON".      97 

Bui,  circumstanced  as  you  and  I  are  at  present,  I 
will  not  sue  for  your  attention  as  a  lover,  but  rest 
contented,  if  possible,  with  that  share  of  kindness 
and  regard  which  your  benevolence  may  afford  me 
as  a  friend."  I  bowed  in  approbation  of  his  reso 
lution.  He  pressed  my  hand  with  ardor  to  his 
lips  ;  and  at  that  instant  General  Richman  entered 
the  garden.  He  approached  us  cheerfully,  offered 
Major  Sanford  his  hand  with  apparent  cordiality, 
and  told  us  pleasantly  that  he  hoped  he  should  not 
be  considered  as  an  intruder.  "  By  no  means,  sir," 
said  Major  Sanford;  "it  is  I  who  have  incurred 
that  imputation.  I  called  this  afternoon  to  pay 
you  my  respects,  when,  being  informed  that  you 
and  your  lady  were  abroad,  and  that  Miss  Whar- 
ton  was  in  the  garden,  I  took  the  liberty  to  invade 
her  retirement.  She  has  graciously  forgiven  my 
crime,  and  I  was  just  affixing  the  seal  to  my  par 
don  as  you  entered." 

We  then  returned  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Richman 
received  us  politely.  During  tea,  the  conversation 
turned  on  literary  subjects,  in  which  I  cannot  say 
that  the  major  bore  a  very  distinguished  part. 
After  he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Richman  said,  "  I  hope 
you  have  been  agreeably  entertained,  Miss  Whar- 
ton."  "  I  did  not  choose  my  company,  madam," 
said  I.  "  Nor,"  said  she,  "  did  you  refuse  it,  I 
6 


98  THE  COQUETTE;  OB,  THE 

presume."  "  Would  you  not  have  me  respect  the 
rights  of  hospitality  towards  your  guests  when  you 
are  absent,  madam  ?  "  "  If  you  had  acted  from 
that  motive,  I  own  my  obligations  to  you,  my 
dear ;  but  even  that  consideration  can  hardly  rec 
oncile  me  to  the  sacrifice  of  time  which  you  have 
made  to  the  amusement  of  a  seducer."  "  I  hope, 
madam,  you  do  not  think  me  an  object  of  seduc 
tion."  "  I  do  not  think  you  seducible ;  nor  was 
Richardson's  Clarissa  till  she  made  herself  the  vic 
tim  by  her  own  indiscretion.  Pardon  me,  Eliza  — 
this  is  a  second  Lovelace.  I  am  alarmed  by  his 
artful  intrusions.  His  insinuating  attentions  to 
you  are  characteristic  of  the  man.  Come,  I  pre 
sume  you  are  not  interested  to  keep  his  secrets  if 
you  know  them ;  will  you  give  me  a  little  sketch 
of  his  conversation  ?  "  "  Most  willingly,"  said  I, 
and  accordingly  related  the  whole.  When  1  had 
concluded,  she  shook  her  head,  and  replied,  "  Be 
ware,  my  friend,  of  his  arts.  Your  own  heart  is 
too  sincere  to  suspect  treachery  and  dissimulation 
in  another ;  but  suffer  not  your  ear  to  be  charmed 
by  the  siren  voice  of  flattery,  nor  your  eye  to  be 
caught  by  the  phantom  of  gayety  and  pleasure. 
Remember  your  engagements  to  Mr.  Boyer.  Let 
sincerity  and  virtue  be  your  guides,  and  they  will 
lead  you  to  happiness  and  peace."  She  waited 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA  WHARTON.      99 

not  for  an  answer,  but,  immediately  rising,  begged 
leave  to  retire,  alleging  that  she  was  fatigued. 
General  Richman  accompanied  her,  and  I  hastened 
to  my  apartment,  where  I  have  written  thus  far, 
and  shall  send  it  on  for  your  comments.  I  begin 
to  think  of  returning  soon  to  your  circle.  One  in-  ' 
ducement  is,  that  I  may  be  free  from  the  intrusions 
of  this  man.  Adieu. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XX. 

To  MRS.  M.  WHARTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

From  the  conversation  of  the  polite,  the  sedate, 
the  engaging,  and  the  gay,  —  from  corresponding 
with  the  learned,  the  sentimental,  and  the  refined, — 
my  heart  and  my  pen  turn  with  ardor  and  alacrity 
to  a  tender  and  affectionate  parent,  the  faithful 
guardian  and  guide  of  my  youth,  the  unchanging 
friend  of  my  riper  years.  The  different  dispo 
sitions  of  various  associates  sometimes  perplex  the 
mind  which  seeks  direction ;  but  in  the  disinterest 
ed  affection  of  the  maternal  breast  we  fear  no  dis 
sonance  of  passion,  no  jarring  interests,  no  disunion 
of  love.  In  this  seat  of  felicity  is  every  enjoyment 


100  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

which  fancy  can  form,  or  friendship,  with  afflnoneo, 
bestow;  but  still  my  mind  frequently  returns  to 
the  happy  shades  of  my  nativity.  I  wish  there  to 
impart  my  pleasures,  and  share  the  counsels  of  my 
best,  my  long-tried,  and  experienced  friend.  At 
this  time,  my  dear  mamma,  I  am  peculiarly  so 
licitous  for  your  advice.  I  am  again  importuned 
to  listen  to  the  voice  of  love  ;  again  called  upon  to 
accept  the  addresses  of  a  gentleman  of  merit  and 
respectability.  You  will  know  the  character  of 
the  man  when  I  tell  you  it  is  Mr.  Boyer.  But  his 
situation  in  life !  I  dare  not  enter  it.  My  dispo 
sition  is  not  calculated  for  that  sphere.  There  are 
duties  arising  from  the  station  which  I  fear  I 
should  not  be  able  to  fulfil,  cares  and  restraints 
to  which  I  could  not  submit.  This  man  is  not 
disagreeable  to  me ;  but  if  I  must  enter  the  connu 
bial  state,  are  there  not  others  who  may  be  equally 
pleasing  in  their  persons,  and  whose  profession 
may  be  more  conformable  to  my  taste  ?  You,  mad 
am,  have  passed  through  this  scene  of  trial  with 
htmor  and  applause.  But,  alas !  can  your  volatile 
daughter  ever  acquire  your  wisdom  —  ever  possess 
your  resolution,  dignity,  and  prudence  ? 

I  hope  soon  to  converse  with  you  personally 
upon  the  subject,  and  to  profit  by  your  precepts 
and  example.  I  anticipate  the  hour  of  my  return  to 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   101 

your  bosom  with  impatience.  My  daily  thoughts 
and  nightly  dreams  restore  me  to  the  society  of 
my  beloved  mamma ;  and,  till  I  enjoy  in  reality,  I 
subscribe  myself  your  dutiful  daughter, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XXI. 

To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HARTFORD. 

How  welcome  to  me,  my  dear  Eliza,  are  the 
tidings  of  your  return !  My  widowed  heart  has 
mourned  your  absence,  and  languished  for  the 
company  of  its  now  dearest  connection.  When 
stripped  of  one  dependence,  the  mind  naturally 
collects  and  rests  itself  in  another.  Your  father's 
death  deprived  me,  for  a  while,  of  every  enjoyment. 
But  a  reviving  sense  of  the  duties  which  I  owed  to 
a  rising  family  roused  me  from  the  lethargy  of  grief. 
In  my  cares  I  found  an  alleviation  of  my  sorrows. 
The  expanding  virtues  of  my  children  soothed  and 
exhilarated  my  drooping  spirits,  and  my  attention 
ID  their  education  and  interest  was  amply  reward 
ed  by  their  proficiency  and  duty.  In  them  every 
hope,  every  pleasure,  now  centres.  They  are  the 
axis  on  which  revolves  the  temporal  felicity  of 


102  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

their  mother.  Judge,  then,  my  dear,  how  anxious 
ly  I  must  watch,  how  solicitously  I  must  regard, 
every  circumstance  which  relates  to  their  welfare 
and  prosperity  !  Exquisitely  alive  to  these  sensa 
tions,  your  letter  awakens  my  hopes  and  my  fears. 
As  you  are  young  and  charming,  a  thousand  dan 
gers  lurk  unseen  around  you.  I  wish  you  to  find 
a  friend  and  protector  worthy  of  being  rewarded 
by  your  love  and  your  society.  Such  a  one  I 
think  Mr.  Boyer  will  prove.  I  am,  therefore,  sorry, 
since  there  can  be  no  other,  that  his  profession 
should  be  an  objection  in  your  mind.  You  say 
that  I  have  experienced  the  scenes  of  trial  con 
nected  with  that  station.  I  have,  indeed ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  the  result  of  this  experience.  It  is, 
that  I  have  found  it  replete  with  happiness.  No 
class  of  society  has  domestic  enjoyment  more  at 
command  than  clergymen.  Their  circumstances 
are  generally  a  decent  competency.  They  are  re 
moved  alike  from  the  perplexing  cares  of  want 
and  from  the  distracting  parade  of  wealth.  They 
are  respected  by  all  ranks,  and  partakers  of  the 
best  company.  With  regard  to  its  being  a  de 
pendent  situation,  what  one  is  not  so  ?  Are  we 
not  all  links  in  the  great  chain  of  society,  some 
more,  some  less  important,  but  each  upheld  by 
others,  throughout  the  confederated  whole  ?  In 


LIFE    AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WIIAUTON.    10<J 

whatever  situation  we  are  placed,  our  greater  or 
less  degree  of  happiness  must  be  derived  from  our 
selves.  Happiness  is  in  a  great  measure  the  result 
of  our  own  dispositions  and  actions.  Let  us  con 
duct  uprightly  and  justly;  with  propriety  and 
steadiness ;  not  servilely  cringing  for  favor,  nor 
arrogantly  claiming  more  attention  and  respect 
than  our  due  ;  let  us  bear  with  fortitude  the  provi 
dential  and  unavoidable  evils  of  life,  and  we  shall 
spend  our  days  with  respectability  and  content 
ment  at  least. 

I  will  not  expatiate  on  the  topic  of  your  letter 
till  we  have  a  personal  interview,  for  which  I  am 
indeed  impatient.  Return,  my  daughter,  as  soon 
as  politeness  will  allow,  to  your  expecting  friends ; 
more  especially  to  the  fond  embraces  of  your  affec 
tionate  mother. 

M.  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XXII. 

To   Miss  ELIZA   WIIAUTON. 

HAMPSHIRE. 

Can  time,  can  distance,  can  absence  allay  or  ex 
tinguish  the  sentiments  of  refined  affection,  the 
ardor  of  true  love  ?  No,  my  dear  Eliza.  If  I  may 


104  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OB,   THE 

judge  by  my  own  heart,  I  shall  say  they  cannot. 
Amidst  the  parade  which  has  attended  me,  the  in 
teresting  scenes  in  which  I  have  been  engaged,  and 
the  weighty  cares  which  have  occupied  my  attention, 
your  idea  has  been  the  solace  of  my  retired  mo 
ments,  the  soother  of  every  anxious  thought.  I 
recall  with  pleasure  the  conversation  which  we 
have  shared.  I  dwell  with  rapture  on  the  marks 
of  favor  which  I  have  received  from  you.  My  first 
wish  is  the  continuance  and  increase  of  these  fa 
vors;  my  highest  ambition,  to  deserve  them.  I 
look  forward  and  anticipate  with  impatience  the 
future  enjoyment  of  your  society,  and  hope  we 
shall  one  day  experience  the  reality  of  those  beau 
tiful  lines  of  Thomson  :  — 

" an  elegant  sufficiency, 


Content,  retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship, 
Books,  ease,  and  alternate  labor  ;  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven  ; 
These  are  the  matchless  joys  of  virtuous  love. 

Mr.  Selby,  my  particular  friend,  will  have  the 
honor  of  delivering  this  letter.  He  will  be  able  to 
give  you  any  information,  relative  to  our  public 
transactions,  which  you  may  wish.  May  I  solicit 
the  favor  of  a  line,  through  him,  in  return  ?  It  will 
relieve,  in  some  measure,  the  tediousness  of  this 
separation.  I  intend  to  pay  my  respects  to  you 


LTFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    105 

personally  in  about  a  fortnight;   till  when  I  sub 
scribe  myself  your  sincere  and  affectionate  friend, 

J.    BOYER. 


LETTER    XXIII. 

To  THE  REV.  J.  BOYER. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  have  executed  your  commission,  and  been  am 
ply  rewarded  for  my  trouble  by  the  pleasures  I  en 
joyed  in  the  society  of  the  agreeable  family  to 
which  I  was  introduced ;  especially  of  the  amiable 
and  accomplished  lady  who  is  the  object  of  your 
particular  regard.  I  think  she  fully  justifies  your 
partiality  to  her.  She  appears  to  possess  both  the 
virtues  and  the  graces.  Her  form  is  fine,  and  her 
countenance  interests  us  at  once  in  her  favor. 
There  is  a  mixture  of  dignity  and  ease  which  com 
mands  respect  and  conciliates  affection.  After 
these  encomiums,  will  you  permit  me  to  say  there 
is  an  air  of  gayety  in  her  appearance  and  deport 
ment  which  savors  a  little  of  coquetry?  I  am 
persuaded,  however,  that  she  has  too  much  good 
sense  to  practise  its  arts.  She  received  your  letter 
very  graciously,  asked  leave  to  retire  a  few  mo- 


106  THE  COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

merits,  and  returned  with  a  smile  of  complacency 
on  her  brow,  which  I  construe  favorably  to  you. 

There  was  a  Mr.  Lawrence,  with  his  lady  and 
daughter,  and  a  certain  Major  Sanford,  at  the 
hou.sc.  The  latter,  I  believe,  in  the  modern  sense 
of  the  phrase,  ¥s  much  of  a  gentleman ;  that  is,  a 
man  of  show  and  fashion. 

Miss  Wharton  asked  me  when  I  should  leave 
town,  and  when  I  should  return,  or  have  an  oppor 
tunity  of  conveyance  to  Hampshire.  I  told  her 
I  should  write  by  the  next  post,  and,  if  she  had  any 
commands,  would  be  happy  to  execute  them. 
She  would  send  a  line  to  her  friend,  she  said,  if 
I  would  take  the  trouble  to  enclose  it  in  my  let 
ter.  I  readily  consented,  and  told  her  that  1 
would  call  and  receive  her  favor  to-morrow 
morning.  This  chitchat  was  a  little  aside ;  but 
I  could  not  but  observe  that  the  aforesaid  Major 
Sanford  had  dropped  his  part  in  the  conversation 
of  the  rest  of  the  company,  and  was  attending  to 
us,  though  he  endeavored  to  conceal  his  attention 
by  looking  carelessly  over  a  play  which  lay  on  the 
window  by  him.  Yet  he  evidently  watched  every 
word  and  action  of  Miss  Wharton,  as  if  he  were 
really  interested  in  her  movements. 

It  is  said  she  has  many  admirers,  and  I  conceive 


LIFE  AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   107 

it  very  possible  that  this  may  be  one  of  them ; 
though,  truly,  I  do  not  think  that  she  would  esteem 
such  a  conquest  any  great  honor.  I  now  joined  in 
the  general  topic  of  conversation,  which  was  pol 
itics  ;  Mrs.  Richman  and  Miss  Wharton  judicious 
ly,  yet  modestly,  bore  a  part;  while  the  other 
ladies  amused  themselves  with  Major  Sanford,  who 
was  making  his  sage  remarks  on  the  play,  which 
he  still  kept  in  his  hand.  General  Richman  at 
length  observed  that  we  had  formed  into  parties. 
Major  Sanford,  upon  this,  laid  aside  his  book. 
Miss  Lawrence  simpered,  and  looked  as  if  she  was 
well  pleased  with  being  in  a  party  with  so  fine  a 
man;  while  her  mother  replied  that  she  never 
meddled  with  politics.  "  Miss  Wharton  and  I," 
said  Mrs.  Richman,  "  must  beg  leave  to  differ  from 
you,  madam.  We  think  ourselves  interested  in  the 
welfare  and  prosperity  of  our  country;  and,  con 
sequently,  claim  the  right  of  inquiring  into  those 
affairs  which  may  conduce  to  or  interfere  with  the 
common  weal.  We  shall  not  be  called  to  the  sen 
ate  or  the  field  to  assert  its  privileges  and  defend 
its  rights,  but  we  shall  feel  for  the  honor  and  safety 
of  our  friends  and  connections  who  are  thus  em 
ployed.  If  the  community  flourish  and  enjoy 
health  and  freedom,  shall  we  not  share  in  the  hap 
py  effects  ?  If  it  be  oppressed  and  disturbed,  shall 


108  THE   COQUETTE;   OE,   THE 

we  not  endure  our  proportion  of  the  evil  ?  Why, 
then,  should  the  love  of  our  country  be  a  masculine 
passion  only?  Why  should  government,  which 
involves  the  peace  and  order  of  the  society  of 
which  we  are  a  part,  be  wholly  excluded  from  our 
observation  ?  "  Mrs.  Lawrence  made  some  slight 
reply,  and  waived  the  subject.  The  gentlemen  ap 
plauded  Mrs.  Richman's  sentiments  as  truly  Ro 
man,  and,  what  was  more,  they  said,  truly  re 
publican. 

1  rose  to  take  leave,  observing  to  Miss  Wharton 
that  I  should  call  to-morrow,  as  agreed.  Upon 
this,  General  Richman  politely  requested  the  favor 
of  my  company  at  dinner.  I  accepted  his  invita 
tion,  and  bade  them  good  nigjht.  I  shall  do  the 
same  to  you  for  the  present,  as  I  intend,  to-mor 
row,  to  scribble  the  cover,  which  is  to  enclose  your 
Eliza's  letter. 

T.   SELBY. 


LETTER    XXIV. 

To    THE    REV.    J.    BOYER. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

i   resume   my  pen,  having  just   returned   from 
General    Richman's ;    not    with    an    expectation, 


LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  ELIZA  WHARTOIT.  109 

howcvor,  of  your  reading  this  till  you  have  pe 
rused  and  reperused  the  enclosed.  I  can  bear  such 
neglect  in  this  case,  as  I  have  been  alike  interested 
myself. 

I  went  to  General  Richman's  at  twelve  o'clock. 
About  a  mile  from  thence,  upon  turning  a  comer, 
I  observed  a  gentleman  and  lady  on  horseback, 
some  way  before  me,  riding  at  a  very  moderate  pace, 
and  seemingly  in  close  conversation.  I  kept  at  the 
same  distance  from  them  till  I  saw  them  stop  at 
the  general's  gate.  I  then  put  on,  and,  coming  up 
with  them  just  as  they  alighted,  was  surprised 
to  find  them  no  other  than  Major  Sanford  and 
Miss  Wharton.  They  were  both  a  little  discon 
certed  at  my  salutation  :  I  know  not  why.  Miss 
Wharton  invited  him  in ;  but  he  declined,  being  en 
gaged  to  dine.  General  Richman  received  us  at 
the  door.  As  I  handed  Miss  Wharton  in,  he  ob 
served,  jocosely,  that  she  had  changed  company. 
"  Yes,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  more  than  once  since  I 
went  out,  as  you  doubtless  observed."  "  I  was 
not  aware,"  said  Mrs.  Richman,  "  that  Major  San- 
ford  was  to  be  of  your  party  to-day."  "  It  was 
quite  accidental,  madam,"  said  Miss  Wharton. 
"  Miss  Lawrence  and  I  had  agreed,  last  evening, 
to  take  a  little  airing  this  forenoon.  A  young 


110  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

gentleman,   a  relation   of   hers,   who   is    making 
them  a  visit,  was  to  attend  us. 

"  We  had  not  rode  more  than  two  miles  when 
we  were  overtaken  by  Major  Sanford,  who  very 
politely  asked  leave  to  join  our  party.  Miss  Law 
rence  very  readily  consented ;  and  we  had  a  very 
sociable  ride.  The  fineness  of  the  day  induced  me 
to  protract  the  enjoyment  of  it  abroad ;  but  Miss 
Lawrence  declined  riding  so  far  as  I  proposed,  as 
she  had  engaged  company  to  dine.  We  therefore 
parted  till  the  evening,  when  we  are  to  meet 
again."  "  What,  another  engagement ! "  said  Mrs. 
Rich  man.  "  Only  to  the  assembly,  madam." 
"  May  I  inquire  after  your  gallant,  my  dear  ?  But  I 
have  no  right,  perhaps,  to  be  inquisitive,"  said  Mrs. 
Rlchman.  Miss  Wharton  made  no  reply,  and  the 
conversation  took  a  general  turn.  Miss  Wharton 
sustained  her  part  with  great  propriety.  Indeed, 
she  discovers  a  fund  of  useful  knowledge  and  ex 
tensive  reading,  which  render  her  peculiarly  enter 
taining  ;  while  the  brilliancy  of  her  wit,  the  fluency 
of  her  language,  the  vivacity  and  ease  of  her  man 
ners  are  inexpressibly  engaging.  I  am  going  my 
self  to  the  assembly  this  evening,  though  I  did  not 
mention  it  to  General  Richman.  I  therefore  took 
my  leave  soon  after  dinner. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   Ill 

I  have  heard  so  much  in  praise  of  Miss  Whar- 
ton's  penmanship,  in  addition  to  her  other  endow 
ments,  that  1  am  almost  tempted  to  break  the  seal 
of  her  letter  to  you  ;  but  I  forbear.  Wishing  you 
much  happiness  in  the  perusal  of  it,  and  more  in 
the  possession  of  its  writer,  I  subscribe  myself 
yours,  &c., 

T.  SELBY. 


LETTER    XXV. 

To    THE    REV.    J.    BOYEJR. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

Sir:  Your  favor  of  the  4th  instant  came  to  hand 
yesterday.  I  received  it  with  pleasure,  and  embrace 
this  early  opportunity  of  contributing  my  part  to 
a  correspondence  tending  to  promote  a  friendly 
and  social  intercourse.  An  epistolary  communica 
tion  between  the  sexes  has  been  with  some  a  sub 
ject  of  satire  and  censure;  but  unjustly,  in  my 
opinion.  With  persons  of  refinement  and  infor 
mation,  it  may  be  a  source  of  entertainment  and 
utility.  The  knowledge  and  masculine  virtues  of 
your  sex  may  be  softened  and  rendered  more  dif 
fusive  by  the  inquisitiveness,  vivacity,  and  docility 
of  ours,  drawn  forth  and  exercised  by  each  other. 


112  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

In  regard  to  the  particular  subject  of  yours,  I 
shall  be  silent.  Ideas  of  that  kind  are  better  con 
veyed,  on  my  part,  by  words  than  by  the  pen. 

I  congratulate  you  on  your  agreeable  settle 
ment,  and  hope  it  will  be  productive  of  real  and 
lasting  happiness.  I  am  convinced  that  felicity 
is  not  confined  to  any  particular  station  or  con 
dition  in  life ;  yet,  methinks,  some  are  better  cal 
culated  to  afford  it  to  me  than  others. 

Your  extract  from  a  favorite  poet  is  charmingly 
descriptive ;  but  is  it  not  difficult  to  ascertain  what 
we  can  pronounce  "  an  elegant  sufficiency "  ? 
Perhaps  you  will  answer,  as  some  others  have 
done,  we  can  attain  it  by  circumscribing  our  wishes 
within  the  compass  of  our  abilities.  I  am  not  very 
avaricious ;  yet  I  must  own  that  I  should  like  to 
enjoy  it  without  so  much  trouble  as  that  would 
cost  me. 

Excuse  my  seeming  levity.  You  have  flattered 
my  cheerfulness  by  commending  it,  and  must, 
therefore,  indulge  me  in  the  exercise  of  it.  I 
cannot  conveniently  be  at  the  pains  of  restrain 
ing  its  sallies  when  I  write  in  confidence. 

Is  a  sprightly  disposition,  in  your  view,  indica 
tive  of  a  giddy  mind  or  an  innocent  heart  ?  Of 
the  latter,  I  presume ;  for  I  know  you  are  not  a 
misanthrope. 


LIFE   AXD   LETTERS    OF   ELTZA   WHAETON.    113 

We  expect  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Selby's  company 
to  dinner.  You  are  certainly  under  obligations  to 
his  friendship  for  the  liberal  encomiums  he  be 
stowed  on  yon  and  your  prospects  yesterday 
Mrs.  llichmaii  rallied  me,  after  he  was  gone,  on 
rny  listening  ear.  The  general  and  she  unite  in 
requesting  me  to  present  their  respects. 

Wishing  you  health  and  happiness,  I  subscribe 
myself  your  friend, 

ELIZA  WIIARTON. 


LETTER    XXVI. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

1  am  perplexed  and  embarrassed,  my  friend,  by 
the  assiduous  attentions  of  this  Major  Sanford.  I 
shall  write  circumstantially  and  frankly  to  you, 
that  I  may  have  the  benefit  of  your  advice.  He 
came  here  last  Monday  in  company  with  Mr. 
Lawrence,  his  wife,  and  daughter,  to  luake  us  a 
visit.  While  they  were  present,  a  Mr.  Selby,  a 
particular  friend  of  Mr.  Boyer,  came  in,  and  deliv 
ered  me  a  letter  from  him.  I  was  really  happy  in 
the  reception  of  this  proof  of  his  affection.  His 


114  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

friend  gave  a  very  flattering  account  of  his  situa 
tion  and  prospects. 

The  watchful  eye  of  Major  Sanford  traced  every 
word  and  action  respecting  Mr.  Boyer  with  an  at 
tention  which  seemed  to  border  on  anxiety.  That, 
however,  did  not  restrain,  but  rather  accelerated, 
my  vivacity  and  inquisitiveness  on  the  subject;  for 
I  wished  to  know  whether  it  would  produce  any 
real  effect  upon  him  or  not. 

After  Mr.  Selby's  departure,  he  appeared  pensive 
and  thoughtful  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  and 
evidently  sought  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  me 
aside,  which  I  studiously  avoided.  Miss  Law 
rence  and  I  formed  an  engagement  to  take  an 
airing  in  the  morning  on  horseback,  attended  by 
a  relation  of  hers  who  is  now  with  them.  They 
called  for  me  about  ten,  when  we  immediately 
set  out  upon  our  preconcerted  excursion.  We 
had  not  proceeded  far  before  we  were  met  by 
Major  Sanford.  He  was  extremely  polite,  and 
finding  our  destination  was  not  particular,  begged 
leave  to  join  our  party.  This  was  granted ;  and 
we  had  an  agreeable  tour  for  several  miles,  the 
time  being  passed  in  easy  and  unstudied  remarks 
upon  obvious  occurrences.  Major  Sanford  could 
not,  however,  conceal  his  particular  attention  to 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELTZA   WHARTON.   115 

me,  which  rather  nettled  Miss  Lawrence.  She 
grew  somewhat  serious,  and  declined  riding  so  far 
as  we  had  intended,  alleging  that  she  expected 
company  to  dine. 

Major  Sanford,  understanding  that  she  was  going 
to  the  assembly  in  the  evening  with  Mr.  Gordon, 
solicited  me  to  accept  a  ticket,  and  form  a  party 
with  them.  The  entertainment  was  alluring,  and 
I  consented.  When  we  had  parted  with  Miss 
Lawrence,  Major  Sanford  insisted  on  my  riding  a 
little  farther,  saying  he  must  converse  with  me  on 
a  particular  subject,  and  if  I  refused  him  this  op 
portunity,  that  he  must  visit  me  at  my  residence, 
let  it  offend  whom  it  would.  1  yielded  to  his  im 
portunity,  and  we  rode  on.  He  then  told  me  that 
his  mind  was  in  a  state  of  suspense  and  agitation 
which  was  very  painful  to  bear,  and  which  I  only 
could  relieve  ;  that  my  cheerful  reception  of  Mr. 
Boyer's  letter  yesterday,  and  deportment  respect 
ing  him,  had  awakened  in  his  breast  all  the  pangs 
of  jealousy  which  the  most  ardent  love  could  feel; 
that  my  treatment  of  Mr.yBoyer's  friend  convinced 
him  that  I  was  more  interested  in  his  affairs  than 
I  was  willing  to  own  ;  that  he  foresaw  himself  to 
be  condemned  to  an  eternal  separation,  and  the 
total  loss  of  my  favor  and  society,  as  soon  as  time 
and  circumstances  would  allow. 


116  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

His  zeal,  his  pathos,  alarmed  me.  I  begged  him 
to  be  calm.  "  To  you,"  said  I,  "  as  a  friend,  I 
have  intrusted  my  situation  in  relation  to  Mr. 
Boyer.  You  know  that  I  am  under  no  special 
obligation  to  him,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  form  any 
immediate  connection."  "  Mr.  Boyer  must  have 
different  ideas,  madam ;  and  he  has  reason  for 
them,  if  I  may  judge  by  appearances.  When  do 
you  expect  another  visit  from  him?"  '"In  about  a 
fortnight."  "  And  is  my  fate  to  be  then  decided  ? 
and  so  decided,  as  I  fear  it  will  be,  through  the 
influence  of  your  friends,  if  not  by  your  own  in 
clination  ? "  "  My  friends,  sir,  will  not  control, 
they  will  only  advise  to  what  they  think  most  for 
my  interest,  and  I  hope  that  my  conduct  will  not 
be  unworthy  of  their  approbation."  "  Pardon  me, 
my  dear  Eliza,"  said  he,  "  if  I  am  impertinent ;  it 
is  my  regard  for  you  which  impels  me  to  the  pre 
sumption.  Do  you  intend  to  give  your  hand  to 
Mr.  Boyer  ?  "  "I  do  not  intend  to  give  my  hand 
to  any  man  at  present.  I  have  but  lately  entered 
society,  and  wish,  for  a  while,  to  enjoy  my  free 
dom  in  the  participation  of  pleasures  suited  to  my 
age  and  sex."  "  These,"  said  he,  "  you  are  aware, 
I  suppose,  when  you  form  a  connection  with  that 
man,  you  must  renounce,  and  content  yourself 
with  a  confinement  to  the  tedious  round  of  do- 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON".   117 

mestic  duties,  the  pedantic  conversation  of  schol 
ars,  and  the  invidious  criticisms  of  a  whole  town." 
"  I  have  been  accustomed,"  said  I,  "  and  am  there 
fore  attached,  to  men  of  letters;  and  as  to  the 
praise  or  censure  of  the  populace,  I  hope  always 
to  enjoy  that  approbation  of  conscience  which  will 
render  me  superior  to  both.  But  you  forget  your 
promise  not  to  talk  in  this  style,  and  have  deviated 
far  from  the  character  of  a  friend  and  brother,  with 
which  you  consented  to  rest  satisfied."  "  Yes ;  but 
I  find  myself  unequal  to  the  task.  I  am  not  stoic 
enough  tamely  to  make  so  great  a  sacrifice.  I 
must  plead  for  an  interest  in  your  favor  till  you 
banish  me  from  your  presence,  and  tell  me  plainly 
that  you  hate  me."  We  had  by  this  time  reached 
the  gate,  and  as  we  dismounted,  were  unexpect 
edly  accosted  by  Mr.  Selby,  who  had  come,  agree 
ably  to  promise,  to  dine  with  us,  and  receive  my 
letter  to  Mr.  Boyer. 

Major  Sanford  took  his  leave  as  General  Rich- 
man  appeared  at  the  door.  The  general  and  his 
lady  rallied  me  on  my  change  of  company,  but 
very  prudently  concealed  their  sentiments  of  Major 
Sanford  while  Mr.  Selby  was  present.  Nothing 
material  occurred  before  and  during  dinner,  soon 
after  which  Mr.  Selby  went  away.  I  retired  to 
dress  for  the  assembly,  and  had  nearly  completed 


118  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

the  labor  of  the  toilet  when  Mrs.  Richman  entered. 
"  My  friendship  for  you,  my  dear  Eliza,"  said  she, 
"  interests  me  so  much  in  your  affairs  that  I  can 
not  repress  my  curiosity  to  know  who  has  th(- 
honor  of  your  hand  this  evening."  "  If  it  be  an 
honor,"  said  I,  "it  will  be  conferred  on  Major  San- 
ford."  "  I  think  it  far  too  great  to  be  thus  be 
stowed,"  returned  she.  "  It  is  perfectly  astonishing 
to  me  that  the  virtuous  part  of  my  sex  will  coun 
tenance,  caress,  and  encourage  those  men  whose 
profession  it  is  to  blast  their  reputation,  destroy 
their  peace,  and  triumph  in  their  infamy."  "  Is 
this,  madam,  the  avowed  design  of  Major  San- 
ford  ? "  "I  know  not  what  he  avows,  but  his 
practice  too  plainly  bespeaks  his  principles  and 
views."  "  Does  he  now  practise  the  arts  you  men 
tion?  or  do  you  refer  to  past  follies  ?  "  "I  cannot 
answer  for  his  present  conduct ;  his  past  has  estab 
lished  his  character."  "  You,  madam,  are  an  ad 
vocate  for  charity;  that,  perhaps,  if  exercised  in 
this  instance,  might  lead  you  to  think  it  possible 
for  him  to  reform,  to  become  a  valuable  member 
of  society,  and,  when  connected  with  a  lady  of 
virtue  and  refinement,  to  be  capable  of  making  a 
good  husband."  "  I  cannot  conceive  that  such  a 
lady  would  be  willing  to  risk  her  all  upon  the 
slender  prospect  of  his  reformation.  I  hope  the 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   119 

one  with  whom  I  am  conversing  has  no  inclina 
tion  to  so  hazardous  an  experiment."  "  Why,  not 
much."  "  Not  much  !  If  you  have  any,  why  do 
you  continue  to  encourage  Mr.  Boyer's  address 
es  ?"  "I  am  not  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
either,  yet,  to  determine  which  to  take.  At  pres 
ent,  I  shall  not  confine  myself  in  any  way.  In 
regard  to  these  men,  my  fancy  and  my  judgment 
are  in  scales ;  sometimes  one  preponderates,  some 
times  the  other ;  which  will  finally  prevail,  time 
alone  can  reveal."  "  O  my  cousin,  beware  of  the 
delusions  of  fancy !  Reason  must  be  our  guide  if 
we  would  expect  durable  happiness."  At  this  in 
stant  a  servant  opened  the  door,  and  told  me  that 
Major  Sanford  waited  in  the  parlor.  Being  ready, 
I  wished  Mrs.  Richman  a  good  evening,  and  went 
down.  Neither  General  Richman  nor  his  lady  ap 
peared.  He  therefore  handed  me  immediately 
into  his  phaeton,  and  we  were  soon  in  the  assem 
bly  room. 

I  was  surprised,  on  my  entrance,  to  find  Mr. 
Selby  there,  as  he  did  not  mention,  at  dinner,  his 
intention  of  going.  He  attached  himself  to  our 
party,  and,  in  the  intervals  of  dancing,  took  every 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  me.  These,  how 
ever,  were  not  many ;  for  Major  Sanford  assidu 
ously  precluded  the  possibility  of  my  being  much 


120  THE    COQUETTE-    OR,    THE 

engaged  by  any  one  else.  We  passed  the  evening 
very  agreeably ;  but  the  major's  importunity  was 
rather  troublesome  as  we  returned  home.  He  in 
sisted  upon  my  declaring  whether  Mr.  Boyer  really 
possessed  my  affections,  and  whether  I  intended 
to  confer  myself  on  him  or  not.  "  If,"  said  he, 
"  you  answer  me  in  the  affirmative,  I  must  de 
spair  ;  but  if  you  have  not  absolutely  decided 
against  me,  I  will  still  hope  that  my  persevering 
assiduity,  my  faithful  love,  may  at  last  be  reward 
ed."  I  told  him  that  I  was  under  no  obligation  to 
give  him  any  account  of  my  disposition  towards 
another,  and  that  he  must  remember  the  terms  of 
our  present  association  to  which  he  had  subscribed. 
I  therefore  begged  him  to  waive  the  subject  now, 
if  not  forever.  He  asked  my  pardon,  if  he  had 
been  impertinent,  but  desired  leave  to  renew  his 
request  that  I  would  receive  his  visits,  his  friendly 
visits.  I  replied  that  I  could  not  grant  this,  and 
that  he  must  blame  himself,  not  me,  if  he  was  an 
unwelcome  guest  at  General  Richman's.  He  la 
mented  the  prejudices  which  my  friends  had  im 
bibed  against  him,  but  nattered  himself  that  I  was 
more  liberal  than  to  be  influenced  by  them  with 
out  any  positive  proof  of  demerit,  as  it  was  im 
possible  that  his  conduct  towards  me  should  ever 
deviate  from  the  strictest  rules  of  honor  and  love. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON".   121 

What  shall  I  say  now,  rny  friend  ?  This  man 
to  an  agreeable  person  has  superadded  graceful 
manners,  an  amiable  temper,  and  a  fortune  suf 
ficient  to  insure  the  enjoyments  of  all  the  pleasing 
varieties  of  social  life.  Perhaps  a  gay  disposition 
and  a  lax  education  may  have  betrayed  him  into 
some  scenes  of  dissipation.  But  is  it  not  an  adage 
generally  received,  that  "  a  reformed  rake  makes 
the  best  husband  "  ?  My  fancy  leads  me  for  happi 
ness  to  the  festive  haunts  of  fashionable  life.  I  am 
at  present,  and  know  not  but  I  ever  shall  be,  too 
volatile  for  a  confinement  to  domestic  avocations 
and  sedentary  pleasures.  I  dare  not,  therefore, 
place  myself  in  a  situation  where  these  must  be 
indispensable.  Mr.  Boyer's  person  and  character 
are  agreeable.  I  really  esteem  the  man.  My  rea 
son  and  judgment,  as  I  have  observed  before,  de 
clare  for  a  connection  with  him,  as  a  state  of  tran 
quillity  and  rational  happiness.  But  the  idea  of 
relinquishing  those  delightful  amusements  and  flat 
tering  attentions  which  wealth  and  equipage  be 
stow  is  painful.  Why  were  not  the  virtues  of  the 
one  and  the  graces  and  affluence  of  the  other 
combined  ?  I  should  then  have  been  happy  in 
deed.  But,  as  the  case  now  stands,  I  am  loath  to 
give  up  either ;  being  doubtful  which  will  conduce 
most  to  my  felicity. 


122  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

Pray  write  me  impartially  ;  let  me  know  your 
real  sentiments,  for  I  rely  greatly  upon  your  opin 
ion.  I  am,  &c., 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XXVII. 

To  THE  REV.  MR.  BOYER. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  am  quite  a  convert  to  Pope's  assertion,  that 

"  Every  woman  is  at  heart  a  rake." 

How  else  can  we  account  for  the  pleasure  which 
they  evidently  receive  from  the  society,  the  flattery, 
the  caresses  of  men  of  that  character  ?  Even  the 
most  virtuous  of  them  seem  naturally  prone  to 
gayety,  to  pleasure,  and,  I  had  almost  said,  to  dis 
sipation.  How  else  shall  we  account  for  the  ex 
istence  of  this  disposition  in  your  favorite  fair? 
It  cannot  be  the  result  of  her  education.  Such  a 
one  as  she  has  received  is  calculated  to  give  her  a 
very  different  turn  of  mind.  You  must  forgive  me, 
my  friend,  for  I  am  a  little  vexed  and  alarmed  on 
your  account.  I  went  last  evening  to  the  assem 
bly,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last  that  I  intended.  I 
was  purposely  without  a  partner,  that  I  might  have 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   123 

the  liberty  to  exercise  rny  gallantry  as  circum 
stances  should  invite.  Indeed  I  must  own  that 
my  particular  design  was  to  observe  Miss  Whar- 
ton's  movements,  being  rather  inclined  to  jealousy 
in  your  behalf.  She  was  handed  into  the  assembly 
room  by  Major  Sanford.  The  brilliance  of  their 
appearance,  the  levity  of  their  manners,  and  the 
contrast  of  their  characters  I  found  to  be  a  gen 
eral  subject  of  speculation.  I  endeavored  to  asso 
ciate  with  Miss  Wharton,  but  found  it  impossible 
to  detach  her  a  moment  from  the  coxcomb  who 
attended  her.  If  she  has  any  idea  of  a  connection 
with  you,  why  does  she  continue  to  associate  with 
another,  especially  with  one  of  so  opposite  a  de 
scription  ?  I  am  seriously  afraid  that  there  is 
more  intimacy  between  them  than  there  ought  to 
be,  considering  the  encouragement  she  has  given 
you. 

I  hope  you  will  not  be  offended  by  my  freedom 
in  this  matter.  It  originates  in  a  concern  for  your 
honor  and  future  happiness.  I  am  anxious  lest 
you  should  be  made  the  dupe  of  a  coquette,  and 
your  peace  of  mind  fall  a  sacrifice  to  an  artful 
debauchee.  Yet  I  must  believe  that  Miss  Whar 
ton  has,  in  reality,  all  that  virtue  and  good  sense 
of  which  she  enjoys  the  reputation  ;  but  her  pres 
ent  conduct  is  mysterious. 


124  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OB,   THE 

I  have  said  enough  (more  than  I  ought,  perhaps) 
to  awaken  your  attention  to  circumstances  which 
may  lead  to  important  events.  If  they  appear  of 
little  or  no  consequence  to  you,  you  will  at  least 
ascribe  the  mention  of  them  to  motives  of  sincere 
regard  in  your  friend  and  humble  servant, 

T.  SELBY. 


LETTER    XXVIII. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

NEW  HAVBH. 

I  go  on  finely  with  my  amour.  *1  have  every  en 
couragement  that  I  could  wish.  Indeed  my  fair 
one  does  not  verbally  declare  in  my  favor;  but 
then,  according  to  the  vulgar  proverb,  that  "ac 
tions  speak  louder  than  words"  I  have  no  reason 
to  complain ;  since  she  evidently  approves  my  gal 
lantry,  is  pleased  with  my  company,  and  listens  to 
my  flattery.  Her  sagacious  friends  have  undoubt 
edly  given  her  a  detail  of  my  vices.  If,  therefore, 
my  past  conduct  has  been  repugnant  to  her  notions 
of  propriety,  why  does  she  not  act  consistently,  and 
refuse  at  once  to  associate  with  a  man  whose  char 
acter  she  cannot  esteem  ?  But  no ;  that,  Charles, 
is  no  part  of  the  female  plan  ;  our  entrapping  a 


LIFE   AND  LETTEES   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   125 

few  of  their  sex  only  discovers  the  gayety  of  our 
dispositions,  the  insinuating  graces  of  our  man 
ners,  and  the  irresistible  charms  of  our  persons  and 
address.  These  qualifications  are  very  alluring  to 
the  sprightly  fancy  of  the  fair.  They  think  to  en 
joy  the  pleasures  which  result  from  this  source, 
while  their  vanity  and  ignorance  prompt  each  one 
tp  imagine  herself  superior  to  delusion,  and  to 
anticipate  the  honor  of  reclaiming  the  libertine  and 
reforming  the  rake.  I  don't  know,  however,  but 
this  girl  will  really  have  that  merit  with  me  ;  for  I 
am  so  much  attached  to  her  that  I  begin  to  sus 
pect  I  should  sooner  become  a  convert  to  sobriety 
than  lose  her.  I  cannot  find  that  I  have  made 
much  impression  on  her  heart  as  yet.  Want  of 
success  in  this  point  mortifies  me  extremely,  as  it 
is  the  first  time  I  ever  failed.  Besides,  I  am  ap 
prehensive  that  she  is  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the 
other  swain,  the  clerical  lover,  whom  I  have  men 
tioned  to  you  before.  The  chord,  therefore,  upon 
which  I  play  the  most,  is  the  dissimilarity  of  their 
dispositions  and  pleasures.  I  endeavor  to  detach 
her  from  him,  and  disaffect  her  towards  him ; 
knowing  that,  if  I  can  separate  them  entirely,  I 
shall  be  more  likely  to  succeed  in  my  plan.  Not 
that  I  have  any  thoughts  of  marrying  her  myself ; 

4*1 

that  will  not  do  at  present.     But  I  love  her  too 


126  THE   COQUETTE;   OB7    THE 

well  to  see  her  connected  with  another  for  life.  T 
must  own  myself  a  little  revengeful,  too,  in  this  af 
fair.  I  wish  to  punish  her  friends,  as  she  cails 
them,  for  their  malice  towards  me,  for  their  cold 
and  negligent  treatment  of  me  whenever  I  go  to 
the  house.  T  know  that  to  frustrate  their  designs 
of  a  connection  between  Mr.  Boyer  and  Eliza 
would  be  a  grievous  disappointment.  I  have  not 
yet  determined  to  seduce  her,  though,  with  all  her 
pretensions  to  virtue,  I  do  not  think  it  impossible. 
And  if  I  should,  she  can  blame  none  but  herself, 
since  she  knows  my  character,  and  has  no  reason 
to  wonder  if  I  act  consistently  with  it.  If  she  wiL 
play  with  a  lion,  let  her  beware  of  his  paw,  I  say. 
At  present,  I  wish  innocently  to  enjoy  her  society; 
it  is  a  luxury  which  I  never  tasted  before.  She 
is  the  very  soul  of  pleasure.  The  gayest  circle  is 
irradiated  by  her  presence,  and  the  highest  enter 
tainment  receives  its  greatest  charms  from  her 
smiles.  Besides,  I  have  purchased  the  seat  of 
Captain  Pribble,  about  a  mile  from  her  mother's  ; 
and  can  I  think  of  suffering  her  to  leave  the  neigh 
borhood  just  as  I  enter  it  ?  I  shall  exert  every 
nerve  to  prevent  that,  and  hope  to  meet  with  the 
usual  success  of 

PF.TF.R   SANFORD. 


LIFE  AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   127 

LETTER    XXIX. 

To   Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HARTFORD. 

You  desire  me  to  write  to  you,  my  friend  ;  but 
if  you  had  not,  I  should  by  no  means  have  re 
frained.  I  tremble  at  the  precipice  on  which  you 
stand,  and  must  echo  and  reecho  the  seasonable 
admonition  of  the  excellent  Mrs.  Richman,  "  Be 
ware  of  the  delusions  of  fancy."  You  are 
strangely  infatuated  by  them !  Let  not  the  magic 
arts  of  that  worthless  Sanford  lead  you,  like  an 
ignis  fatuus,  from  the  path  of  rectitude  and  virtue. 

I  do  not  find,  in  all  your  conversations  with 
him,  that  one  word  about  marriage  drops  from 
his  lips.  This  is  mysterious.  No,  it  is  charac 
teristic  of  the  man.  Suppose,  however,  that  his 
views  are  honorable ;  yet  what  can  you  expect, 
what  can  you  promise  yourself,  from  such  a  con 
nection  ?  "A  reformed  rake,"  you  say,  " makes 
the  best  husband"  —  a  trite,  but  a  very  erroneous 
maxim,  as  the  fatal  experience  of  thousands  of 
our  sex  can  testify.  In  the  first  place,  I  believe 
that  rakes  very  seldom  do  reform  while  their  for 
tunes  and  constitutions  enable  them  to  pursue 
their  licentious  pleasures.  Rut  even  allowing  this 
to  happen ;  can  a  woman  of  refinement  and  deli- 


128  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

cacy  enjoy  the  society  of  a  man  whose  mind  has 
been  corrupted,  whose  taste  has  been  vitiated,  and 
who  has  contracted  a  depravity,  both  of  sentiment 
and  manners,  which  no  degree  of  repentance  can 
wholly  efface  ?  Besides,  of  true  love  they  are  ab 
solutely  incapable.  Their  passions  have  been  much 
too  hackneyed  to  admit  so  pure  a  flame.  You  can 
not  anticipate  sincere  and  lasting  respect  from 
them.  They  have  been  so  long  accustomed  to 
the  company  of  those  of  our  sex  who  deserve  no 
esteem,  that  the  greatest  dignity  and  purity  of 
character  can  never  excite  it  in  their  breasts. 
They  are  naturally  prone  to  jealousy.  Habitu 
ated  to  an  intercourse  with  the  baser  part  of  the 
sex,  they  level  the  whole,  and  seldom  believe  any 
to  be  incorruptible.  They  are  always  hardhearted 
and  cruel.  How  else  could  they  triumph  in  the 
miseries  which  they  frequently  occasion  ?  Their 
specious  manners  may  render  them  agreeable  com 
panions  abroad,  but  at  home  the  evil  propensities 
of  their  minds  will  invariably  predominate.  They 
are  steeled  against  the  tender  affections  which 
render  domestic  life  delightful ;  strangers  to  the 
kind,  the  endearing  sympathies  of  husband,  father, 
and  friend.  The  thousand  nameless  attentions 
which  soften  the  rugged  path  of  life  are  neglected, 
and  deemed  unworthy  of  notice,  by  persons  who 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOTf.   129 

have  been  inured  to  scenes  of  dissipation  and  de 
bauchery.  And  is  a  man  of  this  description  to  be 
the  partner,  the  companion,  the  bosom  friend  of 
my  Eliza  ?  Forbid  it,  Heaven  !  Let  not  the  noble 
qualities  so  lavishly  bestowed  upon  her  be  thus 
unworthily  sacrificed  ! 

You  seem  to  be  particularly  charmed  with  the 
fortune  of  Major  Sanford,  with  the  gayety  of  his 
appearance,  with  the  splendor  of  his  equipage, 
with  the  politeness  of  his  manners,  with  what  you 
call  the  graces  of  his  person.  These,  alas!  are 
superficial,  insnaring  endowments.  As  to  fortune, 
prudence,  economy,  and  regularity  are  necessary  to 
preserve  it  when  possessed.  Of  these  Major  San- 
ford  is  certainly  destitute  —  unless  common  fame 
(which  more  frequently  tells  the  truth  than  some 
are  willing  to  allow)  does  him  great  injustice.  As 
to  external  parade,  it  will  not  satisfy  the  rational 
mind  when  it  aspires  to  those  substantial  pleasures 
for  which  yours  is  formed.  And  as  to  the  graces 
of  person  and  manners,  they  are  but  a  wretched 
substitute  for  those  virtues  which  adorn  and  dig 
nify  human  life.  Can  you,  who  have  always  been 
used  to  serenity  and  order  in  a  family,  to  rational, 
refined,  and  improving  conversation,  relinquish 
them,  and  launch  into  the  whirlpool  of  frivolity, 

where  the  correct  taste  and  the  delicate  sensibil- 

8 


130  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

ity  which  you  possess  must  constantly  be  wounded 
by  the  frothy  and  illiberal  sallies  of  licentious  wit? 

This,  my  dear,  is  but  a  faint  picture  of  the  sit 
uation  to  which  you  seem  inclined.  Reverse  the 
scene,  and  you  will  perceive  the  alternative  which 
is  submitted  to  your  option  in  a  virtuous  connec 
tion  with  Mr.  Boyer.  Remember  that  you  are  act 
ing  for  life,  and  that  your  happiness  in  this  world, 
perhaps  in  the  next,  depends  on  your  present 
choice. 

I  called  last  evening  to  see  your  mamma.  She 
is  fondly  anticipating  your  return,  and  rejoicing  in 
the  prospect  of  your  agreeable  and  speedy  settle 
ment.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  distress 
her  by  intimating  that  you  had  other  views.  I 
wish  her  benevolent  bosom  nevermore  to  feel  the 
pangs  of  disappointed  hope. 

I  am  busily  engaged  in  preparing  for  my  nup 
tials.  The  solemn  words,  n  As  long  as  ye  both 
shall  live,"  render  me  thoughtful  and  serious.  I 
hope  for  your  enlivening  presence  soon,  which  will 
prove  a  seasonable  cordial  to  the  spirits  of  your 

LUCY  FREEMAN. 


LTFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOK.   131 

LETTER    XXX. 

•  To   Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVKH. 

I  believe  your  spirits  need  a  cordial  indeed,  my 
dear  Lucy,  after  drawing  so  dreadful  a  portrait  of 
my  swain.  But  I  call  him  mine  no  longer.  I  re 
nounce  him  entirely.  My  friends  shall  be  grat 
ified;  and  if  their  predictions  are  verified,  I  shall 
be  happy  in  a  union  with  a  man  of  their  choice. 
General  Richman  and  lady  have  labored  abun 
dantly  to  prove  that  my  ruin  was  inevitable  if  I 
did  not  immediately  break  all  intercourse  with' 
Major  Sanford.  I  promised  a  compliance  with 
their  wishes,  and  have  accomplished  the  task, 
though  a  hard  one  I  found  it.  Last  Thursday 
he  was  here,  and  desired  leave  to  spend  an  hour 
with  me.  I  readily  consented,  assuring  my  friends 
it  should  be  the  last  hour  which  I  would  ever  spend 
in  his  company. 

He  told  me  that  he  was  obliged  to  leave  town 
for  a  few  days ;  and  as  I  should  probably  see  Mr. 
Boyer  before  his  return,  he  could  not  depart  in 
peace  without  once  more  endeavoring  to  interest 
me  in  his  favor,  to  obtain  some  token  of  esteem, 
some  glimpse  of  hope  that  I  would  not  utterly  re 
ject  him,  to  support  him  in  his  absence.  I  thanked 


132  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

him  for  the  polite  attention  he  had  paid  me  since 
our  acquaintance,  told  him  that  I  should  ever  re 
tain  a  grateful  sense  of  his  partiality  to  me,  that 
he  would  ever  share  my  best  wishes,  but  that  all 
connection  of  the  kind  to  which  he  alluded  must 
from  that  time  forever  cease. 

He  exerted  all  his  eloquence  to  obtain  a  retrac 
tion  of  that  sentence,  and  ran  with  the  greatest, 
volubility  through  all  the  protestations,  prayers, 
entreaties,  professions,  and  assurances  which  love 
could  feel  or  art  contrive.  I  had  resolution,  how 
ever,  to  resist  them,  and  to  command  my  own 
emotions  on  the  occasion  better  than  my  natural 
sensibility  gave  me  reason  to  expect. 

Finding  every  effort  vain,  he  rose  precipitately, 
and  bade  me  adieu.  I  urged  his  tarrying  to  tea ; 
but  he  declined,  saying  that  he  must  retire  to  his 
chamber,  being,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  unfit 
for  any  society,  as  he  was  banished  from  mine.  I 
offered  him  my  hand,  which  he  pressed  with  ardor 
to  his  lips,  and,  bowing  in  silence,  left  the  room. 

Thus  terminated  this  affair  —  an  affair  which, 
perhaps,  was  only  the  effect  of  mere  gallantry  on 
his  part,  and  of  unmeaning  pleasantry  on  mine, 
and  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  has  given  my  friends 
so  much  anxiety  and  concern.  I  am  under  obliga 
tions  to  them  for  their  kind  solicitude,  however 
causeless  it  may  have  been. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    133 

As  an  agreeable  companion,  as  a  polite  and  fin 
ished  gallant,  Major  Sanford  is  all  that  the  most 
lively  fancy  could  wish.  And  as  you  have  always 
affirmed  that  I  was  a  little  inclined  to  coquetry, 
can  you  wonder  at  my  exercising  it  upon  so  happy 
a  subject  ?  Besides,  when  I  thought  more  seri 
ously,  his  liberal  fortune  was  extremely  alluring 
to  me,  who,  you  know,  have  been  hitherto  confined 
to  the  rigid  rules  of  prudence  and  economy,  not  to 
say  necessity,  in  my  finances. 

Miss  Lawrence  called  on  me  yesterday,  as  she 
was  taking  the  air,  and  asked  me  whether  Major 
Sanford  took  leave  of  me  when  he  left  town.  "  He 
was  here  last  week,"  said  I,  "  but  I  did  not  know 
that  he  was  gone  away."  "  O,  yes,"  she  replied, 
"  he  is  gone  to  take  possession  of  his  seat  which 
he  has  lately  purchased  of  Captain  Pribble.  I  am 
told  it  is  superb ;  and  it  ought  to  be,  if  it  has  the 
honor  of  his  residence."  "  Then  you  have  a  great 
opinion  of  Major  Sanford,"  said  I.  "  Certainly ; 
and  has  not  every  body  else  ?"  said  she.  "I  am 
sure  he  is  a  very  fine  gentleman."  Mrs.  Richman 
smiled  rather  contemptuously,  and  I  changed  the 
subject.  I  believe  that  the  innocent  heart  of  this  ' 
simple;  girl  is  a  little  taken  in. 

1  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Boyer  in 
the  usual  style.  He  expects  the  superlative  hap- 


134  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

piness  of  kissing  my  hand  next  week.  O,  dear! 
I  believe  I  must  begin  to  fix  my  phiz.  Let  me 
run  to  the  glass,  and  try  if  I  can  make  up  one  that 
will  look  madamish.  Yes,  I  succeeded  very  well. 

I  congratulate  you  on  your  new  neighbor ;  but 
I  advise  friend  George  to  have  the  Gordiazi  knot 
tied  immediately,  lest  you  should  be  insnared  by 
this  bewitching  squire. 

I  have  been  trying  to  seduce  General  Richman 
to  accompany  me  to  the  assembly  this  evening, 
but  cannot  prevail.  Were  Mrs.  Richman  able  to 
go  with  us,  he  would  be  very  happy  to  wait  on  us 
together;  but,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  had  rather  enjoy 
her  company  at  home  than  any  which  is  to  be 
found  abroad.  I  rallied  him  on  his  old-fashioned 
taste,  but  my  heart  approved  and  applauded  his 
attachment.  I  despise  the  married  man  or  woman 
who  harbors  an  inclination  to  partake  of  separate 
pleasures. 

I  am  told  that  a  servant  man  inquires  for  me 
below  —  the  messenger  of  some  enamoured  swain, 
I  suppose.  I  will  step  down  and  learn  what  mes 
sage  he  brings. 

Nothing  extraordinary ;  it  is  only  a  card  of  com 
pliments  from  a  Mr.  Emmons,  a  respectable  mer 
chant  of  this  city,  requesting  the  honor  to  wait  on 
me  to  the  assembly  this  evening  —  a  welcome 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    135 

request,  which  1  made  no  hesitation  to  grant.  If 
1  must  resign  these  favorite  amusements,  let  me 
enjoy  as  large  a  share  as  possible  till  the  time  ar 
rives.  I  must  repair  to  the  toilet,  and  adorn  for  a 
new  conquest  the  person  of 

"     ELIZA   WHARTON. 


LETTER    XXXI. 

To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HAETFORD. 

I  am  very  happy  to  find  you  are  in  so  good 
spirits,  Eliza,  after  parting  with  your  favorite 
swain  ;  for  I  perceive  that  he  is  really  the  favor 
ite  of  your  fancy,  though  your  heart  cannot  esteem 
him  ;  and,  independent  of  that,  no  sensations  can 
be  durable. 

I  can  tell  you  some  news  of  this  strange  man. 
He  has  arrived,  and  taken  possession  of  his  seat. 
Having  given  general  invitations,  he  has  been 
called  upon  and  welcomed  by  most  of  the  neigh 
boring  gentry.  Yesterday  he  made  an  elegant 
entertainment.  Friend  George  (as  you  call  him) 
and  I  were  of  the  number  who  had  cards.  Twenty- 
one  couple  went,  I  am  told.  We  did  not  go.  1 
consider  my  time  too  valuable  to  be  spent  in  culti- 


136  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

vating  acquaintance  with  a  person  from  whom 
neither  pleasure  nor  improvement  is  to  be  ex 
pected.  His  profuseness  may  bribe  the  unthink 
ing  multitude  to  show  him  respect ;  but  he  must 
know  that,  though 

"  Places  and  honors  have  been  bought  for  gold, 
Esteem  and  love  were  never  to  be  sold." 

I  look  upon  the  vicious  habits  and  abandoned 
character  of  Major  Sanford  to  have  more  pernicious 
effects  on  society  than  the  perpetrations  of  the  rob 
ber  and  the  assassin.  These,  when  detected,  are 
rigidly  punished  by  the  laws  of  the  land.  If  their 
lives  be  spared,  they  are  shunned  by  society,  and 
treated  with  every  mark  of  disapprobation  and 
contempt.  But,  to  the  disgrace  of  humanity  and 
virtue,  the  assassin  of  honor,  the  wretch  who  breaks 
the  peace  of  families,  who  robs  virgin  innocence 
of  its  charms,  who  triumphs  over  the  ill-placed 
confidence  of  the  inexperienced,  unsuspecting,  and 
too  credulous  fair,  is  received  and  caressed,  not 
only  by  his  own  sex,  to  which  he  is  a  reproach,  but 
even  by  ours,  who  have  every  conceivable  reason 
to  despise  and  avoid  him.  Iniluenced  by  these 
principles,  1  am  neither  ashamed  nor  afraid  openly 
to  avow  my  sentiments  of  this  man,  and  my  rea 
sons  for  treating  him  with  the  most  pointed  neglect. 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    137 

I  write  warmly  on  the  subject ;  for  it  is  a  sub 
ject  in  which  1  think  the  hunor  and  happiness  of 
my  sex  concerned.  I  wish  they  would  more  gen 
erally  espouse  their  own  cause.  It  would  conduce 
to  the  public  weal,  and  to  their  personal  respecta 
bility.  I  rejoice,  heartily,  that  you  have  had  reso 
lution  to  resist  his  allurements,  to  detect  and  repel 
his  artifices.  Resolution  in  such  a  case  is  abso 
lutely  necessary ;  for, 

"  In  spite  of  all  the  virtue  we  can  boast, 
The  woman  that  deliberates  is  lost." 

As  I  was  riding  out  yesterday  I  met  your  mam 
ma.  She  wondered  that  I  was  not  .one  of  the 
party  at  our  new  neighbor's.  "  The  reason,  mad 
am,"  said  I,  "  is,  that  I  do  not  like  the  character 
of  the  man."  "  I  know  nothing  of  him,"  said  she  ; 
"  he  is  quite  a  stranger  to  me,  only  as  he  called  at 
my  house  last  week  to  pay  me  his  respects,  as  he 
said,  for  the  sake  of  my  late  husband,  whose  mem 
ory  he  revered,  and  because  I  was  the  mother  of 
Miss  Eliza  Wharton,  with  whom  he  had  the  honor 
of  some  little  acquaintance.  His  manners  are  en 
gaging,  and  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  his  morals  are 
corrupt." 

This,  my  dear,  is  a  very  extraordinary  visit.  I 
fear  that  he  has  not  yet  laid  aside  his  arts.  Be 


138  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

still  on  your  guard,  is  the  advice  of  your  sincere 
and  faithful  friend, 

LUCY  FREEMAN. 


LETTER    XXXII. 

To   MR.   CHARLES  DEIGIITON. 

HARTFORD. 

I  am  really  banished  and  rejected  —  desired 
nevermore  to  think  of  the  girl  I  love  with  a  view 
of  indulging  that  love  or  of  rendering  it  accept 
able  to  its  object.  You  will  perhaps  dispute  the 
propriety  of  the  term,  and  tell  me  it  is  not  love  — 
it  is  only  gallantry,  and  a  desire  to  exercise  it  with 
her  as  a  favorite  nymph.  I  neither  know  nor  care 
by  what  appellation  you  distinguish  it;  but  it  truly 
gives  me  pain.  I  have  not  felt  one  sensation  of 
genuine  pleasure  since  I  heard  my  sentence ;  yet  I 
acquiesced  in  it,  and  submissively  took  my  leave  ; 
though  I  doubt  not  but  I  shall  retaliate  the  indig 
nity  one  time  or  other. 

I  have  taken  possession  of  my  new  purchase  — 
an  elegant  and  delightful  residence.  It  is  rendered 
more  so  by  being  in  the  vicinity  of  rny  charmer's 
native  abode.  This  circumstance  will  conduce 
much  to  my  enjoyment,  if  I  can  succeed  in  my 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    130 

plan  of  separating  her  from  Mr.  Boyer.  I  know 
that  my  situation  and  mode  of  life  are  far  more 
pleasing  to  her  than  his,  and  shall  therefore  trust 
to  my  appearance  and  address  for  a  reestablish- 
ment  in  her  favor.  I  intend,  if  possible,  to  ingra 
tiate  myself  with  her  particular  friends.  For  this 
purpose  I  called  last  week  at  her  mother's  to 
pay  my  respects  to  her  (so  I  told  the  good  wo 
man)  as  an  object  of  my  particular  regard,  and 
as  the  parent  of  a  young  lady  whom  I  had  the 
honor  to  know  and  admire.  She  received  me 
very  civilly,  thanked  me  for  my  attention,  and 
invited  me  to  call  whenever  I  had  opportunity ; 
which  was  the  very  thing  I  wanted.  I  intend, 
likewise,  to  court  popularity.  I  don't  know  but 
I  must  accept,  by  and  by,  some  lucrative  office 
in  the  civil  department ;  yet  I  cannot  bear  the 
idea  of  confinement  to  business.  It  appears  to 
me  quite  inconsistent  with  the  character  of  a 
gentleman ;  I  am  sure  it  is  with  that  of  a  man  of 
pleasure.  But  something  I  must  do;  for  I  tell 
you,  in  confidence,  that  I  was  obliged  to  mortgage 
this  place  because  I  had  not  wherewithal  to  pay 
for  it.  But  I  shall  manage  matters  very  well,  I 
have  no  doubt,  and  keep  up  the  appearance  of 
allluence  till  I  find  some  lady  in  a  strait  for  a  hus- 


1-10  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

band  whose  fortune  will  enable  me  to  extricate 
myself  from  these  embarrassments.  Do  come  and 
see  me,  Charles  ;  for,  notwithstanding  all  my  gay- 
ety  and  parade,  I  have  some  turns  of  the  hypo, 
some  qualms  of  conscience,  you  will  call  them; 
but  I  meddle  not  with  such  obsolete  words.  And 
so  good  by  to  you,  says 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LETTER    XXXIII. 

To  Miss  LUCY  FREEMAN. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

My  dear  friend :  I  believe  I  must  begin  to  as 
sume  airs  of  gravity  ;  and  they  will  not  be  quite 
so  foreign  to  my  feelings  now  as  at  some  other 
times.  You  shall  know  the  reason.  I  have  been 
associated  for  three  days  with  sentiment  and  sobri 
ety  in  the  person  of  Mr.  Boyer.  I  don't  know  but 
this  man  will  seduce  me  into  matrimony.  He  is 
very  eloquent  upon  the  subject;  and  his  manners 
are  so  solemn  that  I  am  strongly  tempted  —  yet  I 
dare  not  —  to  laugh.  Really,  Lucy,  there  is  some 
thing  extremely  engaging,  and  soothing,  too,  in 
virtuous  and  refined  conversation.  It  is  a  source 


LIFE    ATSTT)   TETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WJ^ARTON.   141 

of  enjoyment  which  cannot  be  realized  by  the  dis 
solute  and  unreflecting.  But  then  this  particular 
theme  of  his  is  not  a  favorite  one  to  me ;  I  mean 
as  connected  with  its  consequences  —  care  and 
confinement.  However,  I  have  compounded  the 
matter  with  him,  and  conditioned  that  he  shall  ex 
patiate  on  the  subject,  and  call  it  by  what  name 
he  pleases,  platonic  or  conjugal,  provided  he  will 
let  me  take  my  own  time  for  the  consummation. 
I  have  consented  that  he  shall  escort  me  next 
week  to  see  my  mamma  and  my  Lucy.  O,  how 
the  idea  of  returning  to  that  revered  mansion,  to 
those  beloved  friends,  exhilarates  my  spirits ! 

General  Richman's  politeness  to  me  has  in 
duced  him  to  invite  a  large  party  of  those  gentle 
men  and  ladies  who  have  been  particularly  atten 
tive  to  me  during  my  residence  here  to  dine  and 
take  tea  to-morrow.  After  that,  I  expect  to  be  en 
gaged  in  making  farewell  visits  till  I  leave  the  place. 
I  shall,  therefore,  forego  the  pleasure  of  telling  you 
any  occurrences  subsequent  to  this  date  until  you 
see  and  converse  with  your  sincere  friend, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


142  %THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

LETTER    XXXIV. 

To  MRS.  RICHMAN. 

HARTFORD. 

Dear  madam :  The  day  after  I  left  your  hospita 
ble  dwelling  brought  me  safe  to  that  of  my  hon 
ored  mamma;  to  the  seat  of  maternal  and  filial 
affection ;  of  social  ease  and  domestic  peace  ;  of 
every  species  of  happiness  which  can  result  from 
religion  and  virtue,  from  refinement  in  morals  and 
manners. 

I  found  my  brother  and  his  wife,  with  Lucy 
Freeman  and  Mr.  Sumner,  waiting  to  receive  and 
bid  me  welcome.  I  flew  with  ecstasy  to  the 
bosom  of  my  mamma,  who  received  me  with  her 
accustomed  affection,  testified  by  the  expressive 
tears  of  tenderness  which  stole  silently  down  her 
widowed  cheek.  She  was  unable  to  speak.  I 
was  equally  so.  We  therefore  indulged  a  moment 
the  pleasing  emotions  of  sympathizing  sensibility. 
When  disengaged  from  her  fond  embrace,  I  was 
saluted  by  the  others  in  turn  ;  and,  having  recov 
ered  myself,  I  presented  Mr.  Boyer  to  each  of  the 
company,  and  each  of  the  company  to  him.  He 
was  cordially  received  by  all,  but  more  especially 
by  my  mamma. 

The  next  day  I  was  called  upon  and  welcomed 


LIFE    AND   LETTEKS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.    143 

by  several  of  my  neighboring  acquaintance ;  among 
whom  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  to  see  Major 
Sanford.  He  came  in  company  with  Mr.  Stod- 
dard  and  lady,  whom  he  overtook,  as  he  told  me, 
near  by  ;  and,  as  they  informed  him  that  the  de 
sign  of  their  visit  was  to  welcome  me  home,  he 
readily  accepted  their  invitation  to  partake  of  the 
pleasure  which  every  one  must  receive  on  my  re 
turn.  I  bowed  slightly  at  his  compliment,  taking 
no  visible  notice  of  any  peculiarity  of  expression 
either  in  his  words  or  looks. 

His  politeness  to  Mr.  Boyer  appeared  to  be  the 
result  of  habit;  Mr.  Boyer's  to  him  to  be  forced 
by  respect  to  the  company  to  which  he  had  gained 
admission.  I  dare  say  that  each  felt  a  conscious 
superiority  —  the  one  on  the  score  of  merit,  the 
other  on  that  of  fortune.  Which  ought  to  out 
weigh  the  judicious  mind  will  easily  decide.  The 
scale,  as  I  once  observed  to  you,  will  turn  as  fancy 
or  reason  preponderates.  I  believe  the  esteem 
which  I  now  have  for  Mr.  Boyer  will  keep  me 
steady ;  except,  perhaps,  some  little  eccentricities 
now  and  then,  just  by  way  of  variety.  I  am  going 
to-morrow  morning  to  spend  a  few  days  with 
Lucy  Freeman,  to  assist  in  the  preparation  for, 
and  the  solemnization  of,  her  nuptials.  '  Mr.  Boyer, 


144  THE  COQUETTE;  OR. 

in  the  mean  time,  will  tarry  among  his  friends  in 
town.  My  mamma  is  excessively  partial  to  him, 
though  I  am  not  yet  jealous  that  she  means  to  ri 
val  me.  I  am  not  certain,  however,  but  it  might 
be  happy  for  him  if  she  should  ;  for  I  suspect,  not 
withstanding  the  disparity  of  her  age,  that  she  is 
better  calculated  to  make  him  a  good  wife  than  I 
am  or  ever  shall  be. 

But  to  be  sober.  Please,  madam,  to  make  my 
compliments  acceptable  to  those  of  your  neigh 
bors,  whose  politeness  and  attention  to  me  while 
at  your  house  have  laid  me  under  particular  ob 
ligations  of  gratitude  and  respect.  My  best  re 
gards  attend  General  Richman.  Pray  tell  him 
that,  though  I  never  expect  to  be  so  good  a  wife 
as  he  is  blessed  with,  yet  I  intend,  after  a  while, 
(when  I  have  sowed,  all  my  wild  oats,)  to  make  a 
tolerable  one. 

I  am  anxious  to  hear  of  a  wished-for  event,  and 
of  your  safety.  All  who  know  you  feel  interested 
in  your  health  and  happiness,  but  none  more 
warmly  than  your  obliged  and  affectionate 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHAHTON.    145 

LETTER    XXXV. 

To   Miss  ELIZA   WHARTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

I  write  a  line,  at  Mrs.  Richman's  request,  just  to 
inform  you,  Eliza,  that,  yesterday,  that  lovely  and 
beloved  woman  presented  me  with  a  daughter. 
This  event  awakens  new  sensations  in  my  mind, 
and  calls  into  exercise  a  kind  of  affection  which 
had  before  lain  dormant.  I  feel  already  the  ten 
derness  of  a  parent,  while  imagination  fondly 
traces  the  mother's  likeness  in  the  infant  form. 
Mrs.  Richman  expects  to  receive  your  congratula 
tions  in  a  letter  by  the  next  post.  She  bids  me 
tell  you,  moreover,  that  she  hopes  soon  to  receive 
an  invitation,  and  be  able  to  attend,  to  the  consum 
mation  you  talk  of.  Give  Mrs.  Richman's  and  my 
particular  regards  to  your  excellent  mother  and 
to  the  worthy  Mr.  Boyer.  With  sentiments  of 
esteem  and  friendship,  I  am,  &c., 

S.  RICHMAN. 


146  TTTTC    COQFTCTTE  :    OR,    TTTTC 

LETTER    XXXVI. 

To  MRS.  RICHMAN. 

HARTFORD. 

From  the  scenes  of  festive  mirth,  from  the  con 
viviality  of  rejoicing  friends,  and  from  the  dissi 
pating  amusements  of  the  gay  world,  I  retire  with 
alacrity,  to  hail  my  beloved  friend  on  the  impor 
tant  charge  which  she  has  received  ;  on  the  acces 
sion  to  her  family,  and,  may  I  not  say,  on  the  ad 
dition  to  her  care?  since  that  care  will  be  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  pleasure  it  confers. 
Hail,  happy  babe !  ushered  into  the  world  by  the 
best  of  mothers;  entitled  by  birthright  to  virtue 
and  honor;  defended  by  parental  love  from  the 
weakness  of  infancy  and  childhood,  by  guardian 
wisdom  from  the  perils  of  youth,  and  by  affluent, 
independence  from  the.  griping  hand  of  poverty  in 
more  advanced  life !  May  these  animating  pros 
pects  be  realized  by  your  little  daughter,  and  may 
you  long  enjoy  the  rich  reward  of  seeing  her  all 
that  you  wish. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  friend,  Lucy  Freeman,  gave 
her  hand  to  the  amiable  and  accomplished  Mr. 
George  Sumner.  A  large  circle  of  congratulating 
friends  were  present.  Her  dress  was  such  as  wealth 
and  elegance  required.  Her  deportment  was  every 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    147 

thing  that  modesty  and  propriety  could  suggest. 
They  are,  indeed,  a  charming  couple.  The  con 
sonance  of  their  dispositions,  the  similarity  of  their 
tastes,  and  the  equality  of  their  ages  are  a  sure 
pledge  of  happiness.  Every  eye  beamed  with 
pleasure  on  the  occasion,  and  every  tongue  echoed 
the  wishes  of  benevolence.  Mine  only  was  silent. 
Though  not  less  interested  in  the  felicity  of  my 
friend  than  the  rest,  yet  the  idea  of  a  separation, 
perhaps  of  an  alienation  of  affection,  by  means  of 
her  entire  devotion  to  another,  cast  an  involuntary 
gloom  over  my  mind.  Mr.  Boyer  took  my  hand 
after  the  ceremony  was  past.  "  Permit  me,  Miss 
Wharton,"  said  he,  "  to  lead  you  to  your  lovely 
friend  ;  her  happiness  must  be  heightened  by  your 
participation  of  it."  "  O,  no,"  said  I,  "  I  am  too 
selfish  for  that.  She  has  conferred  upon  another 
that  affection  which  I  wished  to  engross.  My  love 
was  too  fervent  to  admit  a  rival."  "Retaliate, 
then,"  said  he,  "  this  fancied  wrong  by  doing  like 
wise."  I  observed  that  this  was  not  a  proper  time 
to  discuss  that  subject,  and,  resuming  my  seat, 
endeavored  to  put  on  the  appearance  of  my  ac 
customed  vivacity.  I  need  not  relate  the  remaining 
particulars  of  the  evening's  entertainment.  Mr. 
Boyer  returned  with  my  mamrna,  and  I  remained 
at  Mrs.  Freeman's. 


148  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR.   THE 

We  are  to  have  a  ball  here  this  evening.  Mr. 
Boyer  has  been  with  us,  and  tried  to  monopolize 
my  company ;  but  in  vain.  I  am  too  much  en 
gaged  by  the  exhilarating  scenes  around  for  attend 
ing  to  a  subject  which  affords  no  variety.  I  shall 
not  close  this  till  to-morrow. 

I  am  rather  fatigued  with  the  amusements  of 
last  night,  which  were  protracted  to  a  late  hour. 
Mr.  Boyer  was  present ;  and  I  was  pleased  to  see 
him  not  averse  to  the  entertainment,  though  his 
profession  prevented  him  from  taking  an  active 
part.  As  all  the  neighboring  gentry  were  invited, 
Mr.  Freeman  would  by  no  means  omit  Major 
Sanford,  which  his  daughter  earnestly  solicited. 
It  happened  (unfortunately,  shall  I  say?)  that  I 
drew  him  for  a  partner.  Yet  I  must  own  that  I 
felt  very  little  reluctance  to  my  lot.  He  is  an  excellent 
dancer,  and  well  calculated  for  a  companion  in  the 
hours  of  mirth  and  gayety.  I  regretted  Mr.  Boy- 
er's  being  present,  however,  because  my  enjoyment 
seemed  to  give  him  pain.  I  hope  he  is  not  in 
clined  to  the  passion  of  jealousy.  If  he  is,  I  fear 
it  will  be  somewhat  exercised. 

Lucy  Freeman,  now  Mrs.  Sumner,  removes  next 
week  to  Boston.  I  have  agreed  to  accompany  her, 
and  spend  a  month  or  two  in  her  family.  This 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTOTT.    149 

will  give  variety  to   the  journey  of  life.     Be   so 
kind  as  to  direct  your  next  letter  to  me  there. 

Kiss  the  dear  little  babe  for  me.  Give  love, 
compliments,  &c.,  as  respectively  due ;  and  believe 
me,  with  every  sentiment  of  respect,  your  affec 
tionate 

ELIZA  WHARTON, 


LETTER    XXXVII. 

To   MR.   CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

HAETFOBD. 

Dear  Charles  :  My  hopes  begin  to  revive.  I  am 
again  permitted  to  associate  with  my  Eliza  —  in 
vited  to  the  same  entertainment.  She  does  not 
refuse  to  join  with  me  in  the  mazy  dance,  and  par 
take  the  scenes  of  festive  mirth.  Nay,  mor»;  she 
allows  me  to  press  her  hand  to  my  lips,  and  lis 
tens  to  the  sighing  accents  of  love.  Love  her  I 
certainly  do.  Would  to  Heaven  I  could  marry 
her!  Would  to  Heaven  I  had  preserved  my  for 
tune,  or  she  had  one  to  supply  its  place!  I  am 
distracted  at  the  idea  of  losing  her  forever.  I  am 
sometimes  tempted  to  solicit  her  hand  in  serious 
earnest ;  but  if  I  should,  poverty  and  want  must 
be  the  consequence.  Her  disappointment  in  tha 


150  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    TJIE 

expectation  of  affluence  and  splendor,  which  I  re 
lieve  her  ruling  passion,  would  afford  a  perpetual 
source  of  discontent  and  mutual  wretchedness. 

She  is  going  to  Boston  with  her  friend,  Mrs. 
Sumner.  I  must  follow  her.  I  must  break  the 
connection  which  is  rapidly  forming  between  her 
and  Mr.  Boyer,  and  enjoy  her  society  a  while 
longer,  if  no  more. 

I  have  had  a  little  intimation  from  New  Ha /en 
that  Miss  Lawrence  is  partial  to  me,  and  might 
easily  be  obtained,  with  a  handsome  property  irito 
the  bargain.  I  am  neither  pleased  with  nor  averse 
to  the  girl ;  but  she  has  money,  and  that  may  sup 
ply  the  place  of  love,  by  enabling  me  to  pursue  in 
dependent  pleasures.  This  she  must  expect,  if  she 
marries  a  man  of  my  cast.  She,  doubtless,  knows 
my  character ;  and  if  she  is  so  vain  of  her  charms 
or  influence  as  to  think  of  reforming  or  confining 
me,  she  must  bear  the  consequences. 

However,  I  can  keep  my  head  up  at  present 
without  recourse  to  the  noose  of  matrimony,  and 
shall  therefore  defer  any  particular  attention  to 
her  till  necessity  requires  it.  I  am,  &c., 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    151 

LETTER    XXXVIII. 

To  MRS.  M.  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

You  commanded  me,  my  dear  mamma,  to  write 
to  you.  That  command  I  cheerfully  obey,  in  testi 
mony  of  my  ready  submission  and  respect.  No 
other  avocation  could  arrest  my  time,  which  is  now 
completely  occupied  in  scenes  of  amusement. 

Mrs.  Sumner  is  agreeably  settled  and  situated. 
She  appears  to  be  possessed  of  every  blessing 
which  can  render  life  desirable.  Almost  every  day 
since  our  arrival  has  been  engrossed  by  visitants. 
Our  evenings  we  have  devoted  to  company  abroad  ; 
and  that  more  generally  than  we  should  otherwise 
have  done,  as  my  stay  is  limited  to  so  short  a 
period.  The  museum,  the  theatres,  the  circus,  and 
the  assemblies  have  been  frequented. 

Mrs.  Sumner  has  made  me  several  presents; 
notwithstanding  which,  the  articles  requisite  to  a 
fashionable  appearance  have  involved  me  in  con 
siderable  expense.  I  fear  that  you  will  think  me 
extravagant  when  you  are  told  how  much. 

Mr.  Boyer  tarried  in  town  about  a  week,  having 
business.  He  appeared  a  little  concerned  at  my 
taste  for  dissipation,  as  he  once  termed  it.  He  even 
took  the  liberty  to  converse  seriously  on  the  subject. 


152  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OB,    THE 

I  was  displeased  with  his  freedom,  and  reminded 
him  that  I  had  the  disposal  of  my  own  time  as 
yet,  and  that,  while  I  escaped  the  censure  of  my 
own  heart,  I  hoped  that  no  one  else  would  presume 
to  arraign  it.  He  apologized,  and  gave  up  his 
argument. 

I  was  much  surprised,  the  first  time  I  went  to 
the  play,  to  see  Major  Sanford  in  the  very  next 
box.  He  immediately  joined  our  party;  and  wher 
ever  I  have  been  since,  I  have  been  almost  sure  to 
meet  him. 

Mr.  Boyer  has  taken  his  departure ;  and  I  do 
not  expect  to  see  him  again  till  I  return  home. 

0  mamma,  I  am  embarrassed  about  this  man. 
His  worth  I  acknowledge ;  nay,  I  esteem  him  very 
highly.     But  can  there  be  happiness  with  such  a 
disparity  of  dispositions  ? 

1  shall  soon  return  to  the  bosom  of  domestic 
tranquillity,  to  the   arms  of  maternal  tenderness, 
where  I  can  deliberate  and  advise  at  leisure  about 
this  important  matter.     Till  when,  I  am,  &c., 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAETON.    153 

LETTER    XXXIX. 

To  MR.  T.  SELBY. 

HAMPSHIRE. 

Dear  sir :  I  believe  that  I  owe  you  an  apology 
for  my  long  silence.  But  my  time  has  been  much 
engrossed  of  late,  and  my  mind  much  more  so. 
When  it  will  be  otherwise  I  cannot  foresee.  I 
fear,  my  friend,  that  there  is  some  foundation 
for  your  suspicions  respecting  my  beloved  Eliza. 
What  pity  it  is  that  so  fair  a  form,  so  accomplished 
a  mind,  should  be  tarnished  in  the  smallest  degree 
by  the  follies  of  coquetry!  If  this  be  the  fact, 
which  I  am  loath  to  believe,  all  my  regard  for  her 
shall  never  make  me  the  dupe  of  it. 

When  I  arrived  at  her  residence  at  New  Haven, 
where  I  told  you  in  my  last  I  was  soon  to  go,  she 
gave  me  a  most  cordial  reception.  Her  whole  be 
havior  to  me  was  correspondent  with  those  senti 
ments  of  esteem  and  affection  which  she  modestly 
avowed.  She  permitted  me  to  accompany  her  to 
Hartford,  to  restore  her  to  her  mother,  and  to  de 
clare  my  wish  to  receive  her  again  from  her  hand. 
Thus  far  all  was  harmony  and  happiness.  As  all 
my  wishes  were  consistent  with  virtue  and  honor, 
she  readily  indulged  them.  She  took  apparent 
pleasure  in  my  company,  encouraged  my  hopes  of 


154  THE    COQUETTF  ;    OR  THE 

a  future  union,  and  listened  to  the  tender  accents 
of  love. 

But  the  scenes  of  gayety  which  invited  her 
attention  reversed  her  conduct.  The  delightful 
hours  of  mutual  confidence,  of  sentimental  con 
verse,  and  of  the  interchange  of  refined  affection 
were  no  more.  Instead  of  these,  parties  were 
formed  unpleasing  to  my  taste,  and  every  oppor 
tunity  was  embraced  to  join  in  diversions  in  which 
she  knew  I  could  not  consistently  take  a  share.  I, 
however,  acquiesced  in  her  pleasure,  though  I 
sometimes  thought  myself  neglected,  and  even 
hinted  it  to  her  mother.  The  old  lady  apologized 
for  her  daughter,  by  alleging  that  she  had  been  ab 
sent  for  a  long  time ;  that  her  acquaintances  were 
rejoiced  at  her  return,  and  welcomed  her  by  striving 
to  promote  her  amusement. 

One  of  her  most  intimate  friends  was  married 
during  my  stay,  and  she  appeared  deeply  interested 
in  the  event.  She  spent  several  days  in  assisting 
her  previous  to  the  celebration.  I  resided,  in  the 
mean  time,  at  her  mamma's,  visiting  her  at  her 
friend's,  where  Major  Sanford,  among  others,  was 
received  as  a  guest.  Mrs.  Sumner  acquainted  me 
that  she  had  prevailed  on  Miss  Wharton  to  go  and 
spend  a  few  weeks  with  her  at  Boston,  whither 
she  was  removing,  and  urged  my  accompanying 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WIIARTOX.    155 

them.  1  endeavored  to  excuse  myself,  as  I  had 
been  absent  from  my  people  a  considerable  time, 
and  my  return  was  now  expected.  But  their  im 
portunity  was  so  great,  and  Eliza's  declaration  that 
it  would  be  very  agreeable  to  her  so  tempting,  that 
I  consented.  Here  I  took  lodgings,  and  spent 
about  a  week,  taking  every  opportunity  to  converse 
with  Eliza,  striving  to  discover  her  real  disposition 
towards  me.  I  mentioned  the  inconvenience  of 
visiting  her  so  often  as  I  wished,  and  suggested  my 
desire  to  enter,  as  soon  as  might  be,  into  a  family 
relation.  I  painted,  in  the  most  alluring  colors,  the 
pleasures  resulting  from  domestic  tranquillity,  mu 
tual  confidence,  and  conjugal  affection,  and  in 
sisted  on  her  declaring  frankly  whether  she  designed 
to  share  this  happiness  with  me,  and  when  it 
should  commence.  She  owned  that  she  intended 
to  give  me  her  hand,  but  when  she  should  be  ready 
she  could  not  yet  determine.  She  pretended  a 
promise  from  me  to  wait  her  time,  to  consent 
that  she  should  share  the  pleasures  of  the  fashion 
able  world  as  long  as  she  chose,  &c. 

I  then  attempted  to  convince  her  of  her  mistaken 
ideas  of  pleasure  ;  that  the  scenes  of  dissipation, 
of  which  she  was  so  passionately  fond,  afforded  no 
true  enjoyment ;  that  the  adulation  of  the  cox 
comb  could  not  give  durability  to  her  charms,  or 


156  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

secure  the  approbation  of  the  wise  and  good ;  nor 
could  the  fashionable  amusements  of  brilliant  as 
semblies  and  crowded  theatres  furnish  the  mind 
with 

'•  That  which  nothing  earthly  gives  or  can  destroy  — 
The  soul's  calm  sunshine  and  the  heartfelt  joy." 

These  friendly  suggestions,  I  found,  were  con 
sidered  as  the  theme  of  a  priest,  and  my  desire 
to  detach  her  from  such  empty  pursuits  as  the  self 
ishness  of  a  lover.  She  was  even  offended  at  my 
freedom,  and  warmly  affirmed  that  no  one  had  a 
right  to  arraign  her  conduct.  I  mentioned  Major 
Sanford,  who  was  then  in  town,  and  who  (though 
she  went  to  places  of  public  resort  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Sumner)  always  met  and  gallanted  her  home. 
She  rallied  me  upon  my  jealousy,  as  she  termed  it, 
wished  that  I  would  attend  her  myself,  and  then 
she  should  need  no  other  gallant.  I  answered  that 
I  had  rather  resign  that  honor  to  another,  but 
wished,  for  her  sake,  that  he  might  be  a  gentleman 
whose  character  would  not  disgrace  the  company 
with' which  he  associated.  She  appeared  morti 
fied  and  chagrined  in  the  extreme.  However,  she 
studiously  suppressed  her  emotions,  and  even 
soothed  me  with  the  blandishments  of  female  soft 
ness.  We  parted  amicably.  She  promised  to 
return  soon  and  prepare  for  a  compliance  with  my 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.    157 

wishes.  I  cannot  refuse  to  believe  her.  I  cannot 
cease  to  love  her.  My  heart  is  in  her  posses 
sion.  She  has  a  perfect  command  of  my  passions, 
Persuasion  dwells  on  her  tongue.  With  all  the 
boasted  fortitude  and  resolution  of  our  sex,  we  are 
but  mere  machines.  Let  love  once  pervade  our 
breasts,  and  its  object  may  mould  us  into  any 
form  that  pleases  her  fancy,  or  even  caprice. 

I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Eliza,  inform 
ing  me  of  her  return  to  Hartford.  To-morrow  I 
shall  set  out  on  a  visit  to  the  dear  girl ;  for,  my 
friend,  notwithstanding  all  her  foibles,  she  is  very 
dear  to  me.  Before  you  hear  from  me  again  I  ex 
pect  that  the  happy  day  will  be  fixed  —  the  day 
which  shall  unite  in  the  most  sacred  bands  this 
lovely  maid  and  your  faithful  friend, 

J.   BOYER. 


LETTER    XL. 

To  MR.  T.  SELBY. 

HAMPSHIRE. 

I  have  returned ;  and  the  day,  indeed,  is  fixed  ; 
but  O,  how  different  from  my  fond  expectations  I 
It  is  not  the  day  of  union,  but  the  day  of  final 
separation ;  the  day  which  divides  me  from  my 


158  TTTE    COQUETTE  :    Oft,    TTTE 

charmer  ;  the  day  which  breaks  asunder  the  bands 
of  love  ;  the  day  on  which  my  reason  assumes  its 
empire,  and  triumphs  over  the  arts  of  a  finished 
coquette.  Congratulate  me,  my  friend,  that  I 
have  thus  overcome  my  feelings,  and  repelled  the 
infatuating  wiles  of  a  deceitful  sfirl.  I  would  not 

O  O 

be  understood  to  impeach  Miss  Wharton's  virtue; 
I  mean  her  chastity.  Virtue,  in  the  common  ac 
ceptation  of  the  term,  as  applied  to  the  sex,  is  con 
fined  to  that  particular,  you  know.  But  in  my 
view,  this  is  of  little  importance  where  all  other 
virtues  are  wanting. 

When  I  arrived  at  Mrs.  Wharton's,  and  inquired 
for  Eliza,  I  was  told  that  she  had  rode  out,  but 
was  soon  expected  home.  An  hour  after,  a  phae 
ton  stopped  at  the  door,  from  which  my  fair  one 
alighted,  and  was  handed  into  the  house  by  Major 
Sanford,  who  immediately  took  leave.  I  met  her, 
and  offered  my  hand,  which  she  received  wiih  ap 
parent  tenderness. 

When  the  family  had  retired  after  supper,  and 
left  us  to  talk  on  our  particular  affairs,  I  found  the 
same  indecision,  the  same  loathness  to  bring  our 
courtship  to  a  period,  as  formerly.  Her  previous 
excuses  were  renewed,  and  her  wishes  to  have  a 
union  still  longer  delayed  were  zealously  urged. 
She  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  confinement  to  the 


LIFE   AXD   LETTERS    OF    ELIZA   TTIIARTON.    159 

cares  of  a  married  life  at  present,  and  begged  me 
to  defer  all  solicitation  on  that  subject  to  some  fu 
ture  day.  I  found  my  temper  rise,  and  told  her 
plainly  that  I  was  not  thus  to  be  trifled  with ;  that 
if  her  regard  for  me  was  sincere,  if  she  really  in 
tended  to  form  a  connection  with  me,  she  could  not 
thus  protract  the  time,  try  my  patience,  and  prefer 
every  other  pleasure  to  the  rational  interchange  of 
affection,  to  the  calm  delights  of  domestic  life.  But 
in  vain  did  I  argue  against  her  false  notions  of  hap 
piness,  in  vain  did  I  represent  the  dangerous  sys 
tem  of  conduct  which  she  now  pursued,  and  urge 
her  to  accept,  before  it  was  too  late,  the  hand  and 
heart  which  were  devoted  to  her  service.  That,  she 
said,  she  purposed  ere  long  to  do,  and  hoped  amply 
to  reward  my  faithful  love  ;  but  she  could  not  fix 
the  time  this  evening.  She  must  consider  a  little 
further,  and  likewise  consult  her  mother.  "  Is  it  not 
Major  Sanford  whom  you  wish  to  consult,  madam  ?  " 
said  I.  She  blushed,  and  gave  me  no  answer. 
"  Tell  me,  Eliza,"  I  continued,  "tell  me  frankly,  if  he 
has  not  supplanted  me  in  your  affections  —  if  he  be 
not  the  cause  of  my  being  thus  evasively,  thus 
cruelly,  treated.  "  Major  Sanford,  sir,"  replied  she, 
"  has  done  you  no  harm.  He  is  a  particular  friend 
of  mine,  a  polite  gentleman,  and  an  agreeable 
neighbor,  and  therefore  I  treat  him  with  civility; 


160  TITE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

but  he  is  not  so  much  interested  in  my  concerns 
as  to  alter  my  disposition  towards  any  other  per 
son."  "  Why,"  said  I,  "  do  you  talk  of  friendship 
with  a  man  of  his  character  ?  Between  his  society 
and  mine  there  is  a  great  contrast.  Such  opposite 
pursuits  and  inclinations  cannot  be  equally  pleas 
ing  to  the  same  taste.  It  is,  therefore,  necessary 
that  you  renounce  the  one  to  enjoy  the  other ;  I 
will  give  you  time  to  decide  which.  I  am  going 
to  a  friend's  house  to  spend  the  night,  and  will  call 
on  you  to-morrow,  if  agreeable,  and  converse  with 
you  further  upon  the  matter."  She  bowed  assent, 
and  I  retired. 

The  next  afternoon  I  went,  as  agreed,  and  found 
her  mamma  and  her  alone  in  the  parlor.  She  was 
very  pensive,  and  appeared  to  have  been  in  tears. 
The  sight  affected  me.  The  idea  of  having  treated 
her  harshly  the  evening  before  disarmed  me  of 
my  resolution  to  insist  on  her  decision  that  day. 
I  invited  her  to  ride  with  me  and  visit  a  friend,  to 
which  she  readily  consented.  We  spent  our  time 
agreeably.  I  forbore  to  press  her  on  the  subject 
of  our  future  union,  but  strove  rather  to  soothe  her 
mind,  and  inspire  her  with  sentiments  of  tender 
ness  towards  me.  I  conducted  her  home,  and  re 
turned  early  in  the  evening  to  my  friend's,  who 
met  me  at  the  door,  and  jocosely  told  me  that  he 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    161 

expected  that  I  should  now  rob  them  of  their 
agreeable  neighbor.  "  But,"  added  he,  "  we  have 
been  apprehensive  that  you  would  be  rivalled  if 
you  delayed  your  visit  much  longer."  "  I  did  not 
suspect  a  rival,"  said  I.  "  Who  can  the  happy 
man  be?"  "I  can  say  nothing  from  personal 
observation,"  said  he ;  "  but  fame,  of  late,  has 
talked  loudly  of  Major  San  ford  and  Miss  Wharton. 
Be  not  alarmed,"  continued  he,  seeing  me  look 
grave  ;  "  I  presume  no  harm  is  intended  ;  the  major 
is  a  man  of  gallantry,  and  Miss  Wharton  is  a  gay 
lady ;  but  I  dare  say  that  your  connection  will  be 
happy,  if  it  be  formed"  1  noticed  a  particular  em 
phasis  on  the  word  if;  and,  as  we  were  alone,  I 
followed  him  with  questions  till  the  whole  affair 
was  developed.  I  informed  him  of  my  embarrass 
ment,  and  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  Eliza's 
conduct  had,  for  some  time  past,  been  a  subject 
of  speculation  in  the  town ;  that,  formerly,  her 
character  was  highly  esteemed ;  but  that  her  inti 
macy  with  a  man  of  Sanford's  known  libertinism, 
more  especially  as  she  was  supposed  to  be  en 
gaged  to  another,  had  rendered  her  very  censura 
ble  ;  that  they  were  often  together ;  that  wherever 
she  went  he  was  sure  to  follow,  as  if  by  appoint 
ment;  that  they  walked,  talked,  sung,  and  danced 
together  in  all  companies  ;  that  some  supposed  ho 
LO 


162  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

would  marry  her ;  others  that  he  only  meditated 
adding  her  name  to  the  black  catalogue  of  deluded 
wretches  whom  he  had  already  ruined. 

I  rose  and  walked  the  room  in  great  agitation. 
He  apologized  for  his  freedom  ;  was  sorry  if  he 
had  wounded  my  feelings ;  but  friendship  alone 
had  induced  him  frankly  to  declare  the  truth,  that 
T  might  guard  against  duplicity  and  deceit.  I 
thanked  him  for  his  kind  intentions,  and  assured 
him  that  I  should  not  quit  the  town  till  I  had  de 
termined  this  affair  in  one  way  or  another. 

I  retired  to  bed,  but  sleep  was  a  stranger  to  my 
eyes.  With  the  dawn  I  rose,  and  after  breakfast 
walked  to  Mrs.  Wharton's,  who  informed  me  that 
Eliza  was  in  her  chamber,  writing  to  a  friend,  but 
would  be  down  in  a  few  minutes.  I  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  old  lady  on  the  subject  of 
her  daughter's  conduct,  hinted  my  suspicions  of 
the  cause,  and  declared  my  resolution  of  knowing 
my  destiny  immediately.  She  endeavored  to  ex 
tenuate,  and  excuse  her,  as  much  as  possible,  but 
frankly  owned  that  her  behavior  was  mysterious ; 
that  no  pains  had  been  wanting,  on  her  part,  to 
alter  and  rectify  it ;  that  she  had  remonstrated,  ex 
postulated,  advised,  and  entreated  as  often  as  oc 
casion  required.  She  hoped  that  my  resolution 
would  have  a  good  effect,  as  she  knew  that  her 
daughter  esteemed  me  very  highly. 


LIFE  ATP  T.FTTFT;"  OF  KLTZA  WHARTON.  163 

In  this  manner  we  conversed  till  the  elock  struck 
twelve ;  and,  Eliza  not  appearing,  I  desired  her 
mamma  to  send  up  word  that  I  waited  to  see 
her.  The  maid  returned  with  an  answer  that  she 
was  indisposed,  and  had  lain  down.  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton  observed  that  she  had  not  slept  for  several 
nights,  and  complained  of  the  headache  in  the 
morning.  The  girl  added  that  she  would  wait  on 
Mr.  Boyer  in  the  evening.  Upon  this  information 
I  rose,  and  abruptly  took  my  leave.  I  went  to 
dine  with  a  friend,  to  whom  I  had  engaged  myself 
the  day  before  ;  but  my  mind  was  too  much  agi 
tated  to  enjoy  either  the  company  or  the  dinner. 
I  excused  myself  from  tarrying  to  tea,  and  returned 
to  Miss  Wharton's.  On  inquiry,  I  was  told  that 
Eliza  had  gone  to  walk  in  the  garden,  but  desired 
that  no  person  might  intrude  on  her  retirement. 
The  singularity  of  the  request  awakened  my  curi 
osity,  and  determined  me  to  follow  her.  I  sought 
her  in  vain  in  different  parts  of  the  garden,  till, 
going  towards  an  arbor,  almost  concealed  from 
sight  by  surrounding  shrubbery,  I  discovered  her 
sitting  in  close  conversation  with  Major  Sanford ! 
My  blood  chilled  in  my  veins,  and  I  stood  petri 
fied  with  astonishment  at  the  disclosure  of  such 
baseness  and  deceit.  They  both  rose  in  visible 
confusion.  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  accost 


164  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR;   THE 

them.  My  passions  were  raised,  and  I  feared  that 
I  might  say  or  do  something  unbecoming  my  char 
acter.  I  therefore  gave  them  a  look  of  indignation 
and  contempt,  and  retreated  to  the  house.  I  trav 
ersed  the  parlor  hastily,  overwhelmed  with  chagrin 
and  resentment.  Mrs.  Wharlon  inquired  the  cause. 
I  attempted  to  tell  her,  but  my  tongue  refused  ut 
terance.  While  in  this  situation,  Eliza  entered  the 
room.  She  was  not  less  discomposed  than  myself. 
She  sat  down  at  the  window  and  wept.  Her 
mamma  wept  likewise.  At  length  she  recovered 
herself,  in  a  degree,  and  desired  me  to  sit  down. 
I  answered,  No,  and  continued  walking.  "  Will 
you,"  said  she,  "  permit  me  to  vindicate  my  con 
duct,  and  explain  my  motives?"  "Your  con 
duct,"  said  I,  "  cannot  be  vindicated  ;  your  mo 
tives  need  no  explanation ;  they  are  too  apparent. 
How,  Miss  Wharton,  have  I  merited  this  treat 
ment  from  you  ?  But  I  can  bear  it  no  longer. 
Your  indifference  to  me  proceeds  from  an  attach 
ment  to  another,  and,  forgive  me  if  I  add,  to  one 
who  is  the  disgrace  of  his  own  sex  and  the  de 
stroyer  of  yours.  I  have  been  too  long  the  dupe 
of  your  dissimulation  and  coquetry  —  too  long  has 
my  peace  of  mind  been  sacrificed  to  the  arts  of  a 
woman  whose  conduct  has  proved  her  unworthy 
of  my  regard;  insensible  to  love,  gratitude,  and 
honor. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    165 

"  To  you,  madam/'  said  I,  turning  to  her  mother, 
"  1  acknowledge  my  obligations  lor  your  friendship, 
politeness,  and  attention.  1  once  hoped  for  the 
privilege  of  rocking  for  you  the  cradle  of  declining 
age.  I  am  deprived  of  that  privilege  ;  but  I  pray 
that  you  may  never  want  a  child  whose  love  and 
duty  shall  prove  a  source  of  consolation  and 
comfort. 

"  Farewell.  If  we  never  meet  again  in  this  life, 
I  hope  and  trust  we  shall  in  a  better  —  where  the 
parent's  eye  shall  cease  to  weep  for  the  disobedi 
ence  of  a  child,  and  the  lover's  heart  to  bleed  for 
the  infidelity  of  his  mistress." 

I  turned  to  Eliza,  and  attempted  to  speak ;  but 
her  extreme  emotion  softened  me,  and  I  could  not 
command  my  voice.  I  took  her  hand,  and  bowing, 
in  token  of  an  adieu,  went  precipitately  out  of  the 
house.  The  residence  of  my  friend,  with  whom  I 
lodged,  was  at  no  great  distance,  and  thither  I  re 
paired.  As  I  met  him  in  the  entry,  I  rushed  by 
him,  and  betook  myself  to  my  chamber.  The  fever 
of  resentment  and  the  tumult  of  passion  began  now 
to  give  place  to  the  softer  emotions  of  the  soul.  I 
found  myself  perfectly  unmanned.  I  gave  free 
scope  to  the  sensibility  of  my  heart;  and  the  ef 
feminate  relief  of  tears  materially  lightened  the 
load  which  oppressed  me. 


166  THE    COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

After  this  arduous  struggle  T  went  to  bed,  and 
slept  more  calmly  than  for  several  nights  before. 
The  next  morning  1  wrote  a  farewell  letter  to 
Eliza,  (a  copy  of  which  I  shall  enclose  to  you,) 
and,  ordering  my  horse  to  be  brought,  left  town 
immediately. 

My  resentment  of  her  behavior  has  much  assisted 
me  in  erasing  her  image  from  my  breast.  In  this 
exertion  I  have  succeeded  beyond  my  most  san 
guine  expectations.  The  more  I  reflect  on  her 
temper  and  disposition,  the  more  my  gratitude  is 
enlivened  towards  the  wise  Disposer  of  all  events 
for  enabling  me  to  break  asunder  the  snares  of  the 
deluder.  I  am  convinced  that  the  gayety  and  ex 
travagance  of  her  taste,  the  frivolous  levity  of  her 
manners,  disqualify  her  for  the  station  in  which  I 
wished  to  have  placed  her.  These  considerations, 
together  with  that  resignation  to  an  overruling 
Providence  which  the  religion  I  profess  and  teach 
requires  me  to  cultivate,  induce  me  cheerfully  to 
adopt  the  following  lines  of  an  ingenious  poet :  — • 

"  Since  all  the  downward  tracts  of  time 

God's  watchful  eye  surveys, 
0,  who  so  wise  to  choose  our  lot, 
Or  regulate  our  ways  ? 

"  Since  none  can  doubt  his  equal  love, 
Unmeasurably  kind, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    107 

To  his  unerring,  gracious  will 
Be  every  wish  resigned. 

"  Good  when  he  gives,  supremely  good  ; 

Not  less  when  he  denies ; 
E'en  crosses  from  his  sovereign  hand 
Are  blessings  in  disguise." 

I  am,  &c.,  J.  BOYER. 


To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

[Enclosed  in  t  fie  foregoing.] 

HARTFORD. 

Madam :  Fearing  that  my  resolution  may  not 
be  proof  against  the  eloquence  of  those  charms 
which  has  so  long  commanded  me,  I  take  this 
method  of  bidding  you  a  final  adieu.  I  write  not 
as  a  lover,  —  that  connection  between  us  is  forever 
dissolved, — but  I  address  you  as  a  friend;  as  a 
friend  to  your  happiness,  to  your  reputation,  to 
your  temporal  and  eternal  welfare.  I  will  not  re 
hearse  the  innumerable  instances  of  your  impru 
dence  and  misconduct  which  have  fallen  under  my 
observation.  Your  own  heart  must  be  your  moni 
tor.  Suffice  it  for  me  to  warn  you  against  the 
dangerous  tendency  of  so  dissipated  a  life,  and  to 


168  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OK,    THE 

tell  you  that  I  have  traced  (I  believe  aright)  the 
cause  of  your  dissimulation  and  indifference  to  me. 
They  are  an  aversion  to  the  sober,  rational,  frugal 
mode  of  living  to  which  my  profession  leads ;  a 
fondness  for  the  parade,  the  gayety,  not  to  say  the 
licentiousness,  of  a  station  calculated  to  gratify 
such  a  disposition ;  and  a  prepossession  for  Major 
Sanford,  infused  into  your  giddy  mind  by  the  frip 
pery,  flattery,  and  artifice  of  that  worthless  and 
abandoned  man.  Hence  you  preferred  a  connec 
tion  with  him,  if  it  could  be  accomplished  ;  but  a 
doubt  whether  it  could,  together  with  the  advice 
of  your  friends,  who  have  kindly  espoused  my 
cause,  has  restrained  you  from  the  avowal  of  your 
real  sentiments,  and  led  you  to  continue  your 
civilities  to  me.  What  the  result  of  your  coquet 
ry  would  have  been  had  I  waited  for  it,  I  cannot 
say  ;  nor  have  I  now  any  desire  or  interest  to  know. 
I  tear  from  my  breast  the  idea  which  I  have  long 
cherished  of  future  union  and  happiness  with  you 
in  the  conjugal  state.  I  bid  a  last  farewell  to 
these  fond  hopes,  and  leave  you  forever. 

For  your  own  sake,  however,  let  me  conjure 
you  to  review  your  conduct,  and,  before  you  have 
advanced  beyond  the  possibility  of  returning  to 
rectitude  and  honor,  to  restrain  your  steps  from 
the  dangerous  path  in  which  you  now  tread. 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.    169 

Fly  Major  Sanforcl.  That  man  is  a  deceiver. 
Trust  not  his  professions.  They  are  certainly  in 
sincere,  or  he  would  not  affect  concealment ;  he 
would  not  induce  you  to  a  clandestine  intercourse. 
Many  have  been  the  victims  to  his  treachery.  O 
Eliza,  add  not  to  the  number.  Banish  him  from 
your  society  if  you  wish  to  preserve  your  virtue 
unsullied,  your  character  unsuspicious.  It  already 
begins  to  depreciate.  Snatch  it  from  the  enven 
omed  tongue  of  slander  before  it  receive  an 
incurable  wound. 

Many  faults  have  been  visible  to  me,  over  which 
my  affection  once  drew  a  veil.  That  veil  is  now 
removed ;  and  acting  the  part  of  a  disinterested 
friend,  I  shall  mention  some  few  of  them  with 
freedom.  There  is  a  levity  in  your  manners  which 
is  inconsistent  with  the  solidity  and  decorum  be 
coming  a  lady  who  has  arrived  to  years  of  dis 
cretion.  There  is  also  an  unwarrantable  extrava 
gance  betrayed  in  your  dress.  Prudence  and  econ 
omy  arc  such  necessary,  at  least  such  decent,  vir 
tues,  that  they  claim  the  attention  of  every  female, 
whatever  be  her  station  or  her  property.  To  these 
virtues  you  are  apparently  inattentive.  Too  large 
a  portion  of  your  time  is  devoted  to  the  adorning 
of  your  person. 

Think  not  that  I  write  thus  plainly  from  resent- 


170  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

ment.  No,  it  is  'from  benevolence.  I  mention 
your  foibles,  not  to  reproach  you  with  them,  but 
that  you  may  consider  their  nature  and  effects,  and 
renounce  them. 

\vish  you  to  regard  this  letter  as  the  legacy  of 
a  friend,  and  to  improve  it  accordingly.  I  shall 
leave  town  before  you  receive  it.  O,  how  different 
are  my  sensations  at  going  from  what  they  were 
when  I  came  !  But  I  forbear  description.  Think 
not,  Eliza,  that  I  leave  you  with  indifference. 
The  conquest  is  great,  the  trial  more  than  I  can 
calmly  support ;  yet  the  consciousness  of  duty 
affords  consolation  —  a  duty  I  conceive  it  to  be 
which  I  owe  to  myself  and  to  the  people  of  my 
charge,  who  are  interested  in  my  future  connection. 

I  wish  not  for  an  answer ;  my  resolution  is  un 
alterably  fixed.  But  should  you  hereafter  be  con 
vinced  of  the  justice  of  my  conduct,  and  become  a 
convert  to  my  advice,  I  shall  be  happy  to  hear  it. 

That  you  may  have  wisdom  to  keep  you  from 
falling,  and  conduct  you  safely  through  this  state 
of  trial  to  the  regions  of  immortal  bliss,  is  the  fer 
vent  prayer  of  your  sincere  friend  and  humble 
servant, 

J.  BOYER. 


"LIFE    AX1)    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHAR'LOX.    J  7  1 

LETTER    XLI. 

To  MRS.  LUCY   SUMNER. 

HABTFOED. 

The  retirement  of  my  native  home  is  not  so 
gloomy,  since  my  return  from  Boston,  as  I  expected, 
from  the  contrast  between  them.  Indeed,  the  cus 
toms  and  amusements  of  this  place  are  materially 
altered  since  the  residence  of  Major  Sanford  among 
us.  The  dull,  old-fashioned  sobriety  which  for 
merly  prevailed  is  nearly  banished,  and  cheerful 
ness,  vivacity,  and  enjoyment  are  substituted  in  its 
stead.  Pleasure  is  now  diffused  through  all  ranks 
of  the  people,  especially  the  rich ;  and  surely  it 
ought  to  be  cultivated,  since  the  wisest  of  men  in 
forms  us  that  a  merry  heart  "doth  good  like  a 
medicine."  As  human  life  hath  many  diseases 
which  require  medicines,  are  we  not  right  in  select 
ing  the  most  agreeable  and  palatable  ?  Major 
Sanford's  example  has  had  great  influence  upon 
our  society  in  general ,  and  though  some  of  our 
old  ones  think  him  rather  licentious,  yet,  for  aught 
I  can  see,  he  is  as  strict  an  observer  of  decorum  as 
the  best  of  them.  True,  he  seldom  goes  to  church; 
but  what  of  that  ?  The  Deity  is  not  confined  to 
temples  made  with  hands.  He  may  worship  him 
as  devoutly  elsewhere,  if  he  chooses ;  and  who  has 
a  right  to  say  he  does  not  ? 


172  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

His  return  from  Boston  was  but  a  day  or  two 
after  mine.  He  paid  me  an  early  visit,  and,  in 
deed,  has  been  very  attentive  ever  since.  My 
mamma  is  somewhat  precise  in  her  notions  of  pro 
priety,  and,  of  course,  blames  me  for  associating 
so  freely  with  him.  She  says  that  my  engage 
ments  to  Mr.  Boyer  ought  to  render  me  more 
sedate,  and  more  indifferent  to  the  gallantry  of 
mere  pleasure  hunters^  to  use  her  phrase.  But  I 
think  otherwise.  If  I  am  to  become  a  recluse,  let 
me  at  least  enjoy  those  amusements  which  are 
suited  to  my  taste  a  short  time  first.  Why  should 
I  refuse  the  polite  attentions  of  this  gentleman  ? 
They  smooth  the  rugged  path  of  life,  and  wonder 
fully  accelerate  the  lagging  wheels  of  time. 

Indeed,  Lucy,  he  has  an  admirable  talent  for 
contributing  to  vary  and  increase  amusement. 
We  have  few  hours  unimproved.  Some  new  plan 
of  pleasure  and  sociability  is  constantly  courting 
our  adoption.  He  lives  in  all  the  magnificence  of 
a  prince  ;  and  why  should  I,  who  can  doubtless 
share  that  magnificence  if  I  please,  forego  the  ad 
vantages  and  indulgences  it  odors,  merely  to  grati 
fy  those  friends  who  pretend  to  be  better  judges  of 
my  happiness  than  I  am  myself?  I  have  not  yet 
told  my  mamma  that  he  entertains  me  with  the 
lover's  theme,  or,  at  least,  that  I  listen  to  it.  Yet 


F.T.TZA.  TrnARTON".  17 


I  must  own  to  you,  from  whom  I  have  never  con 
cealed  an  action  or  idea,  that  his  situation  in  life 
charms  my  imagination  ;  that  the  apparent  fervor 
and  sincerity  of  his  passion  affect  my  heart.  Yet 
there  is  something  extremely  problematical  in  his 
conduct.  He  is  very  urgent  with  me  to  dissolve 
my  connection  with  Mr.  Boyer,  and  engage  not  to 
marry  him  without  his  consent,  or  knowledge, 
to  say  no  more.  He  warmly  applauds  my  wish 
still  longer  to  enjoy  the  freedom  and  independence 
of  a  single  state,  and  professedly  adopts  it  for  his 
own.  While  he  would  disconnect  me  from  anoth 
er,  he  mysteriously  conceals  his  own  intentions 
and  views.  In  conversation  with  him  yesterday, 
I  plainly  told  him  that  his  conduct  was  unaccount 
able  ;  that,  if  his  professions  and  designs  were  hon 
orable,  he  could  not  neglect  to  mention  them  to 
my  mamma  ;  that  I  should  no  longer  consent  to 
carry  on  a  clandestine  intercourse  with  him  ;  that 
I  hourly  expected  Mr.  Boyer,  whom  I  esteemed, 
and  who  was  the  favorite  of  my  friends  ;  and  that, 
unless  he  acted  openly  in  this  affair  before  his  ar 
rival,  I  should  give  my  hand  to  him. 

He  appeared  thunderstruck  at  this  declaration. 
All  his  words  and  actions  were  indicative  of  the 
most  violent  emotions  of  mind.  He  entreated  me 
to  recall  the  sentence  ;  for  I  knew  not,  he  said,  his 


171  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

motives  for  secrecy ;  yet  he  solemnly  swore  that 
they  were  honorable.  I  replied  in  the  words  of 
the  poet, — 

"  Trust  not  a  man  ;  they  are  by  nature  cruel, 
False,  deceitful,  treacherous,  and  inconstant. 
When  a  man  talks  of  love,  with  caution  hear  him  ; 
But  if  he  swear,  he'll  certainly  deceive  you." 

He  begged  that  he  might  know  by  what  means  he 
had  provoked  my  suspicions  ;  by  what  means  he 
had  forfeited  my  confidence.  His  importunity 
vanquished  rny  fortitude ;  and  before  we  parted,  I 
again  promised  to  make  him  acquainted,  from 
time  to  time,  with  the  progress  of  my  connection 
with  Mr.  Boyer. 

Now,  rny  dear  friend,  I  want  your  advice  more 
than  ever.  I  am  inadvertently  embarrassed  by 
this  man ;  and  how  to  extricate  myself  I  know 
not.  I  am  sensible  that  the  power  is  in  my  hands ; 
but  the  disposition  (shall  I  confess  it  ?)  is  wanting. 

"  I  know  the  right,  and  I  approve  it  too; 
I  know  the  wrong,  and  yet  the  wrong  pursue." 

I  have  just  received  a  card  from  Major  Sanford, 
inviting  me  to  ride  this  afternoon.  At  first  T 
thought  of  returning  a  negative  answer;  but, 
recollecting  that  Mr.  Boyer  must  soon  be  here,  I 


LIFE    A  XT)    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    175 

concluded  it  best  to  embrace  this  opportunity  of 
talking  further  with  him.  I  must  now  prepare  to 
go,  but  shall  not  close  this  letter,  for  I  intend 
writing  in  continuation,  as  events  occur,  till  this 
important  business  is  decided. 

Tuesday  evening.  —  The  little  tour  which  I  men 
tioned  to  you  this  afternoo'n  was  not  productive 
of  a  final  determination.  The  same  plea  was 
repeated  over  and  over  again  without  closing  the 
cause.  On  my  return  I  found  Mr.  Boyer  waiting 
to  receive  me.  My  heart  beat  an  involuntary  wel 
come.  I  received  him  very  cordially,  though  with 
a  kind  of  pleasure  mixed  with  apprehension.  I 
must  own  that  his  conversation  and  manners  are 
much  better  calculated  to  bear  the  scrutinizing  eye 
of  a  refined  understanding  and  taste  than  Major 
Sanford's.  But  whether  the  fancy  ought  not  to  be 
consulted  about  our  settlement  in  life,  is  with  me 
a  question. 

When  we  parted  last  I  had  promised  Mr.  Boyer 
to  inform  him  positively,  at  this  visit,  when  my 
hand  should  be  given.  He  therefore  came,  as  he 
told  me  in  the  course  of  our  conversation,  with  the 
resolution  of  claiming  the  fulfilment  of  this  promise. 

I  begged  absolution,  told  him  that  I  could  not 
possibly  satisfy  his  claim,  and  sought  still  to  evade 
and  put  off  the  important  decision.  He  grew 


17P>  TITE    COQUETTE  :    OR.    TTTK 

warm,  and  affirmed  that  I  treated  him  ungener 
ously  and  made  needless  delays.  He  even  accused 
me  of  indifference  towards  him,  and  of  partiality 
to  another.  Major  Sanford,  he  believed,  was  the 
man  who  robbed  him  of  the  affection  which  he  had 
supposed  his  due.  He  warned  me  against  any 
intercourse  with  him,  and  insisted  that  I  must  re 
nounce  the  society  of  the  one  or  the  other  imme 
diately. 

He  would  leave  me,  he  said,  this  evening,  and 
call  to-morrow  to  know  the  result  of  my  determina 
tion.  It  was  late  before  he  bade  me  good  night, 
since  which  I  have  written  these  particulars.  It  is 
now  time  to  lay  aside  my  pen,  and  deliberate  what 
course  to  take. 

Wednesday  evening.  —  Last  night  I  closed  not 
my  eyes.  I  rose  this  morning  with  the  sun,  and 
went  into  the  garden  till  breakfast.  My  mamma 
doubtless  saw  the  disorder  of  my  mind,  but  kindly 
avoided  any  inquiry  about  it.  She  was  affection 
ately  attentive  to  me,  but  said  nothing  of  my  par 
ticular  concerns.  I  mentioned  not  my  embarrass 
ment  to  her.  She  had  declared  herself  in  favor  of 
Mr.  Boyer ;  therefore  I  had  no  expectation  that  she 
would  advise  impartially.  I  retired  to  my  cham 
ber,  and  remained  in  a  kind  of  revery  for  more 
than  an  hour,  when  I  was  roused  by  the  rattling 


•     LIFE    AND   LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WIIARTON.    177 

of  a  carriage  at  the  door.  I  hastened  to  the  win 
dow,  and  saw  Major  Sanford  just  driving  away. 
The  idea  of  his  having  been  to  converse  with  my 
mamma  gave  me  new  sensations.  A  thousand 
perplexities  occurred  to  my  mind  relative  to  the 
part  most  proper  for  me  to  act  in  this  critical  situa 
tion.  All  these  might  have  been  avoided,  had  I 
gone  down  and  inquired  into  the  matter;  but  this 
I  delayed  till  dinner.  My  mamma  then  informed 
me  that  Major  Sanford  had  been  with  her,  and 
inquired  for  me,  but  that,  she  thought  it  unneces 
sary  to  call  me,  as  she  presumed  I  had  no  particu 
lar  business  with  him.  I  knew  the  motives  by 
which  she  was  actuated,  and  was  vexed  at  her 
evasions.  I  told  her  plainly  that  she  would  never 
carry  her  point  in  this  way  ;  that  I  thought  myself 
capable  of  conducting  my  own  affairs,  and  wished 
her  not  to  interfere,  except  by  her  advice,  which  I 
should  always  listen  to  and  comply  with  when  I 
could  possibly  make  it  consistent  with  my  inclina 
tion  and  interest.  She  wept  at  my  undutiful 
anger,  (of  which  I  have  severely  repented  since,) 
and  affectionately  replied,  that  my  happiness  was 
the  object  of  her  wishes  and  prayers  ;  conformably 
to  which  she  felt  constrained  freely  to  speak  her 
mind,  though  it  incurred  my  displeasure.  She 
then  went  through  again  with  all  the  comparative 
li 


178  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

circumstances  and  merits  of  the  two  candidates 
for  my  favor,  which  have  perpetually  rung  in  my 
ears  for  months.  I  shed  tears  at  the  idea  of  my 
embarrassment;  and  in  this  condition  Mr.  Boyer 
found  us.  He  appeared  to  be  affected  by  my  visi 
ble  disorder,  and,  without  inquiring  the  cause, 
endeavored  to  dissipate  it.  This  was  kindly  done. 
He  conversed  upon  indifferent  subjects,  and  invited 
me  to  ride,  and  take  tea  with  your  mamma,  to 
which  I  readily  consented.  We  found  her  at  home, 
and  passed  the  time  agreeably,  excepting  the  alloy 
of  your  absence.  Mr.  Boyer  touched  lightly  on 
the  subject  of  our  last  evening's  debate,  but  expa 
tiated  largely  on  the  pleasing  power  of  love,  and 
hoped  that  we  should  one  day  both  realize  and 
exemplify  it  in  perfection.  When  we  returned  he 
observed  that  it  was  late,  and  took  his  leave,  tell 
ing  me  that  he  should  call  to-morrow,  and  begged 
that  I  would  then  relieve  his  suspense.  As  I  was 
retiring  to  bed,  the  maid  gave  me  a  hint  that 
Major  Sanford's  servant  had  been  here  and  left  a 
letter.  I  turned  instantly  back  to  my  mamma,  and, 
telling  her  my  information,  demanded  the  letter. 
She  hesitated,  but  I  insisted  on  having  it ;  and 
seeing  me  resolute,  she  reluctantly  gave  it  into  my 
hand.  It  contained  the  following  words  :  — 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON".    179 

"  Am  I  forsaken  ?  am  I  abandoned  ?  O  my 
adorable  Eliza,  have  you  sacrificed  me  to  my  rival  ? 
have  you  condemned  me  to  perpetual  banishment 
without  a  hearing? 

"  I  came  this  day  to  plead  my  cause  at  your 
feet,  but  was  cruelly  denied  the  privilege  of  seeing 
you.  My  mind  is  all  anarchy  and  confusion.  My 
soul  is  harrowed  up  with  jealousy.  I  will  be  re 
venged  on  those  who  separate  us,  if  that  distracting 
event  take  place.  But  it  is  from  your  lips  only 
that  I  can  hear  my  sentence.  You  must  witness 
its  effects.  To  what  lengths  my  despair  may  carry 
me  I  know  not.  You  are  the  arbitress  of  my 
fate. 

"  Let  me  conjure  you  to  meet  me  in  your  garden 
to-morrow  at  any  hour  you  shall  appoint.  My 
servant  will  call  for  an  answer  in  the  morning. 
Deny  me  not  an  interview,  but  have  pity  on  your 
faithful  SANFORD." 

I  wrote  for  answer  that  I  would  meet  him  to 
morrow,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

I  have  now  before  me  another  night  for  consid 
eration,  and  shall  pass  it  in  that  employment.  I 
purpose  not  to  see  Mr.  Boyer  till  I  have  conversed 
with  Major  Sanford. 

Thursday  morning. — The  morning  dawns,  and 


180  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OE,    THE 

ushers  in  the  day  —  a  day,  perhaps,  big  with  the 
fate  of  your  friend.  What  that  fate  may  be  is 
wrapped  in  the  womb  of  futurity  —  that  futurity 
which  a  kind  Providence  has  wisely  concealed  from 
the  penetration  of  mortals. 

After  mature  consideration,  after  revolving  and 
re-revolving  every  circumstance  on  both  sides  of 
the  question,  I  have  nearly  determined,  in  compli 
ance  with  the  advice  of  my  friends  and  the  dictates 
of  my  own  judgment,  to  give  Mr.  Boyer  the  pref 
erence,  and  with  him  to  tread  the  future  round 

of  life. 

« 
As  to  the  despair  of  Major  Sanford,  it  does  not 

much  alarm  me.  Such  violent  passions  are  sel 
dom  so  deeply  rooted  as  to  produce  lasting  effects. 
I  must,  however,  keep  my  word,  and  meet  him  ac 
cording  to  promise. 

Mr.  Boyer  is  below.  My  mamma  has  just  sent 
me  word  that  he  wished  to  see  me.  My  reply  was, 
that  I  had  lain  down,  which  was  a  fact. 

One  o'clock.  — My  mamma,  alarmed  by  my  in 
disposition,  has  visited  my  apartment.  I  soon 
convinced  her  that  it  was  but  trifling,  owing  prin 
cipally  to  the  want  of  sleep,  and  that  an  airing  in 
the  garden,  which  I  intended  towards  night,  would 
restore  me. 

Ten  o'clock  at  night.  —  The  day  is  past ;   and 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   181 

mich  a  day  it  has  been  as  I  hope  nevermore  to 
Bee.  At  the  hour  appointed,  I  went,  tolerably  com 
posed  and  resolute,  into  the  garden.  I  had  taken 
several  turns,  and  retired  into  the  little  arbor,  where 
you  and  I  have  spent  so  many  happy  hours,  before 
Major  Sanford  entered.  When  he  appeared,  a 
consciousness  of  the  impropriety  of  this  clandes 
tine  intercourse  suffused  my  cheek,  and  gave  a 
coldness  to  my  manners.  He  immediately  pene 
trated  the  cause,  and  observed  that  my  very  coun 
tenance  told  him  he  was  no  longer  a  welcome  guest 
to  me.  I  asked  him  if  he  ought  so  to  be,  since 
his  motives  for  seeking  admission  were  unworthy 
of  being  communicated  to  my  friends.  That,  he 
said,  was  not  the  case,  but  that  prudence  in  the 
present  instance  required  a  temporary  concealment. 
He  then  undertook  to  exculpate  himself  from 
blame,  assuring  me  that  as  soon  as  I  should  dis 
countenance  the  expectations  of  Mr.  Boyer,  and  dis 
continue  the  reception  of  his  address,  his  intentions 
should  be  made  known.  He  was  enlarging  upon 
this  topic,  when  we  heard  a  footstep  approaching 
us,  and,  looking  up,  saw  Mr.  Boyer  within  a  few 
paces  of  the  arbor.  Confusion  seized  us  both. 
A/Ve  rose  involuntarily  from  our  seats,  but  were 
mute  as  statues.  He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  casting 
a  look  of  indignant  accusation  at  me,  —  a  glance 


182  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

wnich  penetrated  my  very  soul,  —  turned  on  his 
heel,  and  walked  hastily  back  to  the  house. 

1  stood  a  few  moments,  considering  what  course 
to  take,  though  shame  and  regret  had  almost  taken 
from  me  the  power  of  thought. 

Major  Sanford  took  my  hand.  I  withdrew  it 
from  him.  "  I  must  leave  you,"  said  I.  "  Where 
will  you  go  ?  "  said  he.  "  I  will  go  and  try  to  re 
trieve  my  character.  It  has  suffered  greatly  by 
this  fatal  interview." 

He  threw  himself  at  my  feet,  and  exclaimed, 
"  Leave  me  not,  Eliza ;  I  conjure  you  not  to 
leave  me."  "  Let  me  go  now,"  I  rejoined,  "  or  I 
bid  you  farewell  forever."  I  flew  precipitately  by 
him,  and  went  into  the  parlor,  where  I  found  Mr. 
Boyer  and  my  mamma,  the  one  traversing  the 
room  in  the  greatest  agitation,  the  other  in  a  flood 
of  tears.  Their  appearance  affected  me,  and  I 
wept  like  an  infant.  When  I  had  a  little  recov 
ered  myself,  I  begged  him  to  sit  down.  He  an 
swered,  No.  I  then  told  him  that  however  unjusti 
fiable  my  conduct  might  appear,  perhaps  I  might 
explain  it  to  his  satisfaction  if  he  would  hear  me ; 
that  my  motives  were  innocent,  though  they  doubt 
less  wore  the  aspect  of  criminality  in  his  view. 
He  sternly  replied,  that  no  palliation  could  avail ; 
my  motives  were  sufficiently  notorious.  He 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    183 

accused  me  of  treating  him  ill,  of  rendering  him 
the  dupe  of  coquetting  artifice,  of  having  an  in 
trigue  with  Major  Sanford,  and  declared  his  de 
termination  to  leave  me  forever,  as  unworthy  of  his 
regard,  and  incapable  of  love,  gratitude,  or  honor. 
There  was  too  much  reason  in  support  of  his  ac 
cusations  for  me  to  gainsay  them,  had  his  impetu 
osity  suffered  me  to  attempt  it. 

But,  in  truth,  I  had  no  inclination  to  self-defence. 
My  natural  vivacity  had  forsaken  me,  and  I  lis 
tened  without  interrupting  him  to  the  fluency  of 
reproachful  language  which  his  resentment  in 
spired.  He  took  a  very  solemn  and  affectionate 
leave  of  my  mamma,  thanking  her  for  her  polite 
ness,  and  wishing  her  much  future  felicity.  He  at 
tempted  to  address  me,  I  suppose,  somewhat  in  the 
same  way  ;  but  his  sensibility  somewhat  overcame 
him,  and  he  only  took  my  hand,  and,  bowing  in 
silence,  departed. 

The  want  of  rest  for  two  long  nights  together, 
the  exercise  of  mind,  and  conflict  of  passions 
which  now  tortured  my  breast,  were  too  much  for 
rue  to  support. 

When  I  saw  that  he  was  gone,  that  he  had  ac 
tually  forsaken  me,  I  fainted.  My  mamma,  with 
the  assistance  of  the  maid,  soon  restored  me. 

When  I  opened  rny  eyes  and  beheld  this  amiable 


184  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OK,    THE 

and  tender  parent  watching  and  attending  me  with 
the  most  anxious  concern,  without  one  reproach 
ful  word,  without  one  accusing  look,  my  reflections 
upon  the  part  I  had  acted,  in  defeating  her  benev 
olent  wishes,  were  exquisitely  afflictive.  But  we 
mutually  forbore  to  mention  the  occasion  of  my 
illness ;  and  I  complied  with  her  advice  to  take 
some  refreshment,  and  retire  to  my  chamber.  I  am 
so  much  fatigued  by  the  exertions  of  the  day  that 
rest  is  absolutely  necessary  ;  and  I  lay  aside  my 
pen  to  seek  it. 

Friday  morning.  —  When  I  shall  again  receive 
the  balmy  influence  of  sleep,  I  know  not.  It  has 
absolutely  forsaken  me  at  present.  I  have  had  a 
most  restless  night.  Every  awakening  idea  pre 
sented  itself  to  my  imagination ;  whether  I  had 
sustained  a  real  loss  in  Mr.  Boyer's  departure,  re 
flections  on  my  own  misconduct,  with  the  censure 
of  my  friends,  and  the  ill-natured  remarks  of  my 
enemies,  excited  the  most  painful  anxiety  in  my 
mind. 

I  am  going  down ;  but  how  shall  I  see  my  mam 
ma  ?  To  her  I  will  confess  my  faults,  in  her  ma 
ternal  breast  repose  my  cares,  and  by  her  friendly 
advice  regulate  my  conduct.  Had  I  done  this  be 
fore,  I  might  have  escaped  this  trouble,  and  saved 
both  her  and  myself  many  distressing  emotions. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   \,HARTON.    185 

Friday  evening.  —  I  have  had  a  long  conversation 
with  my  mamma,  which  has  greatly  relieved  my 
mind.  She  has  soothed  me  with  the  most  endear 
ing  tenderness. 

Mr.  Atkins,  with  whom  Mr.  Boyer  lodged  while 
in  town,  called  here  this  afternoon.  I  did  not  see 
him  ;  but  he  told  my  mamma  that  Mr.  Boyer  had 
returned  home,  and  left  a  letter  for  me,  which  he 
nad  promised  to  convey  with  his  own  hand.  By 
this  I  am  convinced  that  the  die  is  absolutely  cast 
with  respect  to  him,  and  that  no  attempts  on  my 
part  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  would  be  either 
prudent  or  successful.  He  has  penetrated  the 
cause  of  my  proceedings ;  and  such  is  his  resent 
ment,  that  I  am  inclined  not  much  to  regret  his 
avoiding  another  interview. 

My  excuses  would  be  deemed  utterly  insuf 
ficient,  and  truth  would  not  befriend  and  justify 
me. 

As  I  know  you  are  impatient  to  hear  from  me, 
I  will  now  despatch  this  long  letter  without  any 
other  addition  than  that  I  am  your  sincere  friend, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


186  THE    COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

LETTER    XLII. 

To   MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

HARTFORD. 

Well,  Charles,  the  show  is  over,  as  we  Yankees 
say,  and  the  girl  is  my  own  ;  that  is,  if  I  will 
have  her.  I  shall  take  my  own  time  for  that,  how 
ever.  I  have  carried  my  point,  and  am  amply  re 
venged  on  the  whole  posse  of  those  dear  friends  of 
hers.  She  was  entangled  by  a  promise  (not  to 
marry  this  priest  without  rny  knowledge)  which 
her  conscience  would  not  let  her  break.  Thank 
God,  I  have  no  conscience.  If  I  had,  I  believe  it 
would  make  wretched  work  with  me.  I  suppose  she 
intended  to  have  one  or  the  other  of  us,  but  pre 
ferred  me.  I  have  escaped  the  noose  this  time,  and 
I'll  be  fairly  hanged  if  I  ever  get  so  near  it  again ; 
for  indeed,  Charles,  I  was  seriously  alarmed.  1 
watched  all  their  motions,  and  the  appearance  of 
harmony  between  them  awakened  all  my  activity 
and  zeal.  So  great  was  my  infatuation,  that  I  ver 
ily  believe  I  should  have  asked  her  in  marriage, 
and  risked  the  consequences,  rather  than  to  have 
lost  her. 

I  went  to  the  house  while  Mr.  Boyer  was  in 
town ;  but  her  mamma  refused  to  call  her,  or  to 
acquaint  her  that  I  was  there.  I  then  wrote  a 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OP    ELIZA    WHAJHON".    187 

despairing  letter,  and  obtained  a  conference  with  her 
in  the  garden.  This  was  a  fortunate  event  for  me. 
True,  Eliza  was  very  haughty,  and  resolutely  in 
sisted  on  an  immediate  declaration  or  rejection ; 
and  I  cannot  say  what  would  have  been  the  result 
if  Mr.  Boyer  had  not  surprised  us  together.  He 
gave  us  a  pretty  harsh  look,  and  retired  without 
speaking  a  word. 

I  endeavored  to  detain  Eliza,  but  in  vain.  She 
left  me  on  my  knees,  which  are  always  ready  to 
bend  on  such  occasions. 

This  finished  the  matter,  it  seems.  I  rose,  and 
went  into  a  neighbor's  to  observe  what  happened, 
and  in  about  half  an  hour  saw  Mr.  Boyer  come 
out  and  go  to  his  lodgings.  "  This,"  said  I  to  my 
self,  "  is  a  good  omen."  I  went  home,  and  was  in 
formed,  next  day,  that  he  had  mounted  his  horse 
and  departed. 

I  heard  nothing  more  of  her  till  yesterday,  when 
I  determined  to  know  how  she  stood  affected  to 
wards  rne.  I  therefore  paid  her  a  visit,  her  mamma 
being  luckily  abroad. 

She  received  me  very  placidly,  and  told  me,  on 
inquiry,  that  Mr.  Boyer's  resentment  at  her  meet 
ing  me  in  the  garden  was  so  great  that  he  had 
bade  her  a  final  adieu.  I  congratulated  myself  on 
having  no  rival,  hoped  that  her  favor  would  now 


188  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

be  unbiased,  and  that  in  due  time  I  should  reap 
the  reward  of  my  fidelity.  She  begged  me  not  to 
mention  the  subject,  said  she  had  been  perplexed 
by  our  competition,  and  wished  not  to  hear  any 
thing  further  about  it  at  present.  I  bowed  in 
obedience  to  her  commands,  and  changed  the  dis 
course. 

I  informed  her  that  I  was  about  taking  a  tour  to 
the  southward ;  that  I  should  be  absent  several 
months,  and  trusted  that  on  my  return  her  embar 
rassments  would  be  over. 

I  left  her  with  regret.  After  all,  Charles,  she  is 
the  summum  bonum  of  my  life.  I  must  have  her 
in  some  way  or  other.  Nobody  else  shall,  I  am 
resolved. 

I  am  making  preparations  for  my  journey,  which, 
between  you  and  me,  is  occasioned  by  the  prospect 
of  making  a  speculation,  by  which  I  hope  to  mend 
my  affairs.  The  voyage  will  at  least  lessen  my  ex 
penses,  and  screen  me  from  the  importunity  of 
creditors  till  I  can  look  about  me. 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.   189 

LETTER    XLIII. 

To   Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

NEW  HAVEN. 

My  dear  Eliza  :  Through  the  medium  of  my 
friends  at  Hartford,  I  have  been  informed  of  the 
progress  of  your  affairs  as  they  have  transpired. 
The  detail  which  my  sister  gave  me  of  your  sep 
aration  from  Mr.  Boyer  was  painful,  as  I  had  long 
contemplated  a  happy  union  between  you ;  but 
still  more  disagreeable  sensations  possessed  my 
breast  when  told  that  you  had  suffered  your  lively 
spirits  to  be  depressed,  and  resigned  yourself  to 
solitude  and  dejection. 

Why,  my  dear  friend,  should  you  allow  this 
event  thus  to  affect  you  ?  Heaven,  I  doubt  not, 
has  happiness  still  in  store  for  you  —  perhaps 
greater  than  you  could  have  enjoyed  in  that  con 
nection.  If  the  conviction  of  any  misconduct  on 
your  part  gives  you  pain,  dissipate  it  by  the  reflec 
tion  1hat  unerring  rectitude  is  not  the  lot  of  mor 
tals  ;  that  few  are  to  be  found  who  have  not  devi 
ated,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  from  the  maxims 
of  prudence.  Our  greatest  mistakes  may  teach 
lessons  which  will  be  useful  through  life. 

But  I  will  not  moralize.  Come  and  see  us,  and 
we  will  talk  over  the  matter  once,  and  then  dismiss 


190  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

it  forever.  Do  prevail  on  your  mamma  to  part 
with  you  a  month  or  two  at  least.  I  wish  you 
to  witness  how  well  I  manage  my  nursery  busi 
ness.  You  will  be  charmed  with  little  Harriet. 
I  am  already  enough  of  the  mother  to  think  her 
a  miniature  of  beauty  and  perfection. 

How  natural  and  how  easy  the  transition  from 
one  stage  of  life  to  another !  Not  long  since,  I 
was  a  gay,  volatile  girl,  seeking  satisfaction  in 
fashionable  circles  and  amusements ;  but  now  I 
am  thoroughly  domesticated.  All  my  happiness 
is  centred  within  the  limits  of  my  own  walls,  and 
I  grudge  every  moment  that  calls  me  from  the 
pleasing  scenes  of  domestic  life.  Not  that  I  am  so 
selfish  as  to  exclude  my  friends  from  my  affection 
or  society.  I  feel  interested  in  their  concerns,  and 
enjoy  their  company.  I  must  own,  however,  that 
conjugal  and  parental  love  are  the  mainsprings  of 
my  life.  The  conduct  of  some  mothers,  in  depriv 
ing  their  helpless  offspring  of  the  care  and  kindness 
which  none  but  a  mother  can  feel,  is  to  me  unac 
countable.  There  are  many  nameless  attentions 
which  nothing  short  of  maternal  tenderness  and 
solicitude  can  pay,  and  for  which  the  endearing 
smiles  and  progressive  improvements  of  the  lovely 
babe  are  an  ample  reward. 

How  delightful  to  trace  from  day  to  day  the 


LIFE    AXP    LETTERS    07   ETJZA   TVIIARTON.    191 

expansion  of  reason  and  the  dawnings  of  intelli 
gence  !  O,  how  I  anticipate  the  time  when  these 
faculties  shall  be  displayed  by  the  organs  of  speech, 
when  the  lisping  accent  shall  heighten  our  present 
;  ieasure,  .and  the  young  idea  be  capable  of  direc 
tion  "  how  to  shoot  "  !  General  Richman  is  not 
less  interested  by  these  enjoyments  than  myself. 
All  the  father  beams  in  his  eye  ;  all  the  husband 
reigns  in  his  heart  and  pervades  his  every  action. 

Miss  Lawrence  is  soon  to  be  married  to  Mr. 
Laiton.  I  believe  he  is  a  mere  fortune  hunter. 
Indeed,  she  has  little  to  recommend  her  to  any 
other.  Nature  has  not  been  very  bountiful  either 
to  her  body  or  mind.  Her  parents  have  been 
shamefully  deficient  in  her  education,  but  have 
secured  to  her  what  they  think  the  chief  good  — 
not  considering  that  happiness  is  by  no  means  the 
invariable  attendant  of  wealth. 

I  hope  this  incoherent  scrawl  will  amuse,  while 
it  induces  you  speedily  to  favor  us  with  another 


My  best  wishes  attend  your  honored  mamma, 
hile  T  sabs-o.ribe  myself,  &c., 

A.  RICHMAN. 


192  THE    COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

LETTER    XL  IV. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HAKTFORI;. 

I  am  extremely  depressed,  my  dear  Lucy.  TL- 
agitating  scenes  through  which  I  have  lately  passed 
have  broken  my  spirits,  and  rendered  me  unfit  for 
society.  Major  Sanford  has  visited  me,  and  taken 
his  leave.  He  is  gone  to  the  southward  on  a  tou.v 
of  two  or  three  months.  I  declined  any  further 
conversation  with  him  on  the  subject  of  love.  Al 
present  I  wish  not  to  hear  it  mentioned  by  any 
one. 

I  have  received  a  very  friendly  and  consoiatorj 
letter  from  Mrs.  Richman.  She  invites  me  to 
spend  a  few  months  with  her,  which,  with  my 
mamma,  s  consent,  I  shall  do.  I  hope  the  chang-r 
of  situation  and  company  will  dissipate  the  gloon 
which  hangs  over  my  mind. 

It  is  a  common  observation,  that  we  know  nut 
the  value  of  a  blessing  but  by  deprivation.  This 
is  strictly  verified  in  my  case.  I  \vac  insensible  of 
my  regard  for  Mr.  Boyer  till  this  fatal  separati.".! 
took  place.  His  merit  and  worth  now  appear  in 
the  brightest  colors.  I  am  convinced  of  that  ex 
cellence  which  I  once  slighted,  and  the  shade  of 
departed  happiness  haunts  me  perpetually.  I  am 


LIFE    AXP    LXTTEKS    O7    ELTZ.V    WIIAKTOX.    193 

sometimes  tempted  to  write  to  him  and  confess 
my  faults ;  to  tell  him  the  situation  of  my  mind, 
and  to  offer  him  my  hand ;  but  he  has  precluded 
all  hopes  of  success  by  the  severity  of  his  letter  to 
me.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind 
till  my  return  from  New  Haven. 

I  am  the  more  willing  to  leave  home  as  my  af 
fairs  are  made  a  town  talk.  My  mamma  per 
suades  me  to  disregard  it;  but  how  can  I  rise 
superior  to  "  the  world's  dread  laugh,  which 
scarce  the  firm  philosopher  can  scorn  "  1 

Pray  remember  me  to  Mr.  Sumner.  You  are 
happy,  my  friend,  in  the  love  and  esteem  of  a 
worthy  man,  but  more  happy  still  in  deserving 
them.  Adieu. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XLV. 

To    THE    SAME. 

HARTFOBD. 

I  have  returned  to  the  once  smiling  seat  of  ma 
ternal  affection  ;  but  I  find  not  repose  and  happi 
ness  even  here. 

In  the  society  of  my  amiable  friends  at  New 
Haven,  I  enjoyed  every  thing  that  friendship  could 
12 


194  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

bestow ;  but  rest  to  a  disturbed  mind  was  not  in 
their  power. 

I  was  on  various  parties  of  pleasure,  and  passed 
through  different  scenes  of  amusement ;  but  with 
me  they  have  lost  their  charms.  I  relished  them 
not  as  formerly. 

Mrs.  Richman  advises  me  to  write  to  Mr.  Boyer, 
and  I  have  concluded  to  act  accordingly.  If  it 
answer  no  other  purpose,  it  will  be  a  relief  to  my 
mind.  If  he  ever  felt  for  me  the  tenderness  and 
regard  which  he  professed,  I  think  they  cannot  be 
entirely  obliterated.  "  If  they  still  remain,  perhaps 
I  may  rekindle  the  gentle  flame,  and  we  may  both 
be  happy.  I  may  at  least  recall  his  esteem,  and 
that  will  be  a  satisfaction  to  my  conscious  mind. 

I  wonder  what  has  become  of  Major  Sanford. 
Has  he,  too,  foidaken  rne  ?  Is  it  possible  for  him 
wilfully  to  neglect  me?  I  will  not  entertain  so 
injurious  a  suspicion.  Yet,  if  it  were  the  case,  it 
would  not  affect  me  like  Mr.  Boyer's  disaffection ; 
for  I  frankly  own  that  my  fancy,  and  a  taste  for 
gayety  of  life,  induced  me  to  cherish  the  idea  of  a 
connection  with  Major  Sanford ;  while  Mr.  Boyer's 
real  merit  has  imprinted  those  sentiments  of  esteem 
and  love  in  my  heart  which  time  can  never  efface. 

Instead  of  two  or  three,  more  than  twelve 
months  have  elapsed,  and  I  have  not  received  a 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    195 

t 
line  from  Major  Sanford  in  all  that  time,  which 

I  fully  expected,  though  he  made  no  mention  of 
writing ;  nor  have  I  heard  a  syllable  about  him, 
except  a  report  circulated  by  his  servants,  that  he 
is  on  the  point  of  marrying,  which  I  do  not  be 
lieve.  No  ;  it  is  impossible.  I  am  persuaded  that 
his  passion  for  me  was  sincere,  however  deceitful 
he  may  have  been  with  others.  But  I  will  not 
bestow  an  anxious  thought  upon  him.  My  design 
relative  to  Mr.  Boyer  demands  my  whole  attention. 

My  hopes  and  fears  alternately  prevail,  and  my 
resolution  is  extremely  fluctuating.  How  it  finally 
terminates  you  shall  hear  in  my  next.  Pray  write 
to  me  soon.  I  stand  in  need  of  the  consoling 
power  of  friendship.  Nothing  can  beguile  my 
pensive  hours,  and  exhilarate  my  drooping  spirits, 
like  your  letters. 

Let  me  know  how  you  are  to  be  entertained 
this  winter  at  the  theatre.  That,  you  know,  is  a 
favorite  amusement  of  mine.  You  see  I  can  step 
out  of  myself  a  little.  Afford  an  assisting  hand, 
and  perhaps  I  may  again  be  fit  for  society. 

ELIZA  WHART  iv 


196  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR.    THE 

LETTER    XLVI. 

To    THE     REV.    J.    BOYER. 

HAKTFORD. 

Sir  :  It  is  partly  in  compliance  with  your  desire, 
in  your  last  letter  to  me,  in  which  you  tell  me 
"that  when  I  am  convinced  of  the  justice  of  your 
conduct,  and  become  a  convert  to  your  advice,  you 
shall  be  happy  to  hear  it,"  and  partly  from  a  wish 
to  inform  you  that  such  is  in  truth  my  present  state 
of  mind,  that  I  now  write  to  you. 

I  cannot  but  hope  that  this  letter,  coming  from 
the  hand  which  you  once  sought,  will  not  be  un 
acceptable. 

Pope  very  justly  observes,  that  "  every  year  is  a 
critic  on  the  last."  The  truth  of  this  observation 
is  fully  exemplified  in  rny  years.  How  severely 
this  condemns  the  follies  of  the  preceding,  my  own 
heart  alone  can  testify. 

I  shall  not  offer  any  palliation  or  apology  for  my 
misconduct.  You  told  me  it  admitted  none.  I 
frankly  confess  it;  and  if  the  most  humble  ac 
knowledgment  of  my  offences,  with  an  assurance 
that  they  have  cost  me  the  deepest  repentance,  can 
in  any  degree  atone  for  them,  I  now  make  that 
atonement.  Casting  off  the  veil  of  dissimulation, 
I  shall  write  with  frankness,  believing  you  pos- 


LIFE    AXD   LKTTEJirf    OF    ELIZA    WJIAKTOM".    197 

sessed  of  more  honor  than  to  make  any  ungenerous 
use  of  the  confidence  reposed  in  you. 

To  say  that  I  ever  esteemed  you  may,  perhaps, 
appear  paradoxical  when  compared  with  certain 
circumstances  which  occurred  daring  our  acquaint 
ance  ;  but  to  assert  that  I  loved  you  may  be  deemed 
still  more  so.  Yet  these  are  real  facts  —  facts  of 
which  I  was  then  sensible,  and  by  which  I  am 
now  more  than  ever  affected. 

I  think  you  formerly  remarked  that  absence 
served  but  to  heighten  real  love.  This  I  find  by 
experience.  Need  I  blush  to  declare  these  senti 
ments,  when  occasion  like  this  calls  for  the  avowal  ? 
I  will  go  even  further,  and  offer  you  that  heart 
which  you  once  prized,  that  hand  which  you  once 
solicited.  The  sentiments  of  affection  which  you 
then  cultivated,  though  suppressed,  I  flatter  myself 
are  not  wholly  obliterated.  Suffer  me,  then,  to 
rekindle  the  latent  flame,  to  revive  that  friendship 
and  tenderness  which  I  have  so  foolishly  neglect 
ed.  The  endeavor  of  my  future  life  shall  be  to 
reward  your  benevolence,  and  perhaps  we  may  yet 
be  happy  together. 

But  let  not  this  offer  of  myself  constrain  you. 
Let  not  pity  influence  your  conduct.  I  would 
have  your  return,  if  that  pleasing  event  take  place, 


198  TIT  1C    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

a  voluntary  act.     Receive,  or  consent  not  to  confer, 
happiness. 

I  thought  it  a  duty  which  I  owed  to  you,  and  to 
myself,  to  make  this  expiation,  thrs  sacrifice  of 
female  reserve,  for  the  wrongs  I  have  done  you. 
As  such  I  wish  you  to  accept  it ;  and  if  your  af 
fections  are  entirely  alienated  or  otherwise  en 
gaged,  if  you  cannot  again  command  the  respect 
and  love  which  I  would  recall,  do  not  despise 
me  for  the  concessions  I  have  made.  Think  as 
favorably  of  my  past  faults  and  of  my  present  dis 
position  as  charity  will  allow.  Continue,  if  possi 
ble,  to  be  my  friend,  though  you  cease  to  be  my 
lover. 

Should  this  letter  find  you  in  the  full  pos 
session  of  happiness,  let  not  the  idea  of  your  once 
loved  Eliza,  thus  intruding  itself  again  upon  your 
thoughts,  interrupt  your  enjoyments.  May  some 
distinguished  female,  as  deserving  as  fair,  partake 
with  you  of  that  bliss  which  I  have  forfeited. 

Whatever  may  be  my  destiny,  my  best  wishes 
shall  ever  attend  you,  and  a  pleasing  remembrance 
of  your  honorable  attentions  preside,  till  death,  in 
the  breast  of 

ELIZA  WIIARTON. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.    199 

LETTER    XL VII. 

To   Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

HAMPSHIRE. 

Madam :  As  I  was  sitting  last  evening  in  rny 
study,  a  letter  was  handed  me  by  a  servant ;  upon 
which  I  no  sooner  cast  my  eye  than  I  recognized, 
with  surprise,  the  hand  and  seal  of  my  once  loved, 
but  to  me  long  lost,  Eliza.  I  opened  it  hastily, 
and  with  still  greater  surprise  read  the  contents. 

You  write  with  frankness ;  I  shall  answer  in 
the  same  manner. 

On  reviewing  our  former  intercourse,  be  assured 
that  I  have  not  an  accusing  thought  in  my  heart. 
The  regard  which  I  felt  for  you  was  tender  and 
animated,  but  it  was  not  of  that  passionate  kind 
which  ends  in  death  or  despair.  It  was  governed 
by  reason,  and  had  a  nobler  object  in  view  than 
mere  sensual  gratification.  It  was  excited  by  the 
appearance  of  excellent  qualities.  Your  conduct, 
at  length,  convinced  me  it  was.  misplaced ;  that 
you  possessed  not  in  reality  those  charms  which 
I  had  fondly  ascribed  to  you.  They  were  incon 
sistent,  I  conceived,  with  that  artifice  and  dissimu 
lation  of  which  you  strove  to  render  me  the  dupe. 
But,  thank  Heaven,  the  snare  was  broken.  My 
eyes  were  open  to  discover  your  folly ;  and  my 


200  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

heart,  engaged  as  it  was,  exerted  resolution  and 
strength  to  burst  asunder  the  chain  by  which  you 
held  me  enslaved,  and  to  assert  the  rights  of  au 
injured  man. 

The  parting  scene  you  remember.  I  reluctantly 
bade  you  adieu.  I  tore  myself  from  you,  deter 
mined  to  eradicate  your  idea  from  my  breast. 
Long  and  severe  was  the  struggle  ;  at  last  I  van 
quished,  as  I  thought,  every  tender  passion  of  my 
soul,  (for  they  all  centred  in  you,)  and  resigned 
myself  to  my  God  and  my  duty,  devoting  those 
affections  to  friendship  which  had  been  disappoint 
ed  in  love.  But  they  are  again  called  into  exer 
cise.  The  virtuous,  the  amiable,  Ihe  accomplished 
Maria  Selby  possesses  my  entire  confidence  and 
esteem ;  and  I  trust  I  am  not  deceived  when  I 
think  her  highly  deserving  of  both.  With  her  I 
expect  soon  to  be  united  in  the  most  sacred  and 
endearing  of  human  relations,  with  her  to  pass 
my  future  days  in  serenity  and  peace. 

Your  letter,  therefore,  came  too  late,  were  there 
no  other  obstacle  to  the  renewal  of  our  connection. 
I  hope  at  the  close  of  life,  when  we  take  a  retro 
spect  of  the  past,  that  neither  of  us  shall  have  rea 
son  to  regret  our  separation. 

Permit  me  to  add,  that  for  your  own  sake,  and 
for  the  sake  of  your  ever-valued  friends,  I  sincerely 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAKTON.    201 

rejoice  that  your  mind  has  regained  its  native 
strength  and  beauty  ;  that  you  have  emerged  from 
the  shade  of  fanciful  vanity.  For  although,  to 
adopt  your  own  phrase,  I  cease  to  style  myself 
your  lover,  among  the  number  of  your  friends  I 
am  happy  to  be  reckoned.  As  such,  let  me  con 
jure  you,  by  all  that  is  dear  and  desirable,  both  in 
this  life  and  another,  to  adhere  with  undeviating 
exactness  to  the  paths  of  rectitude  and  innocence, 
and  to  improve  the  noble  talents  which  Heaven  has 
liberally  bestowed  upon  you  in  rendering  yourself 
amiable  and  useful  to  your  friends.  Thus  will 
you  secure  your  own,  while  you  promote  the  hap- 
ness  of  all  around  you. 

I  shall  ever  cherish  sentiments  of  kindness  to 
wards  you,  and  with  gratitude  remember  your  con 
descension  in  the  testimony  of  regard  which  you 
have  given  me  in  your  last  letter. 

I  hope  soon  to  hear  that  your  heart  and  hand 
are  bestowed  on  some  worthy  man,  who  deserves 
the  happiness  you  are  formed  to  communicate. 
Whatever  we  may  have  called  errors  will,  on  my 
part,  be  forever  buried  in  oblivion  ;  and  for  your 
own  peace  of  mind  I  entreat  you  to  forget 
that  any  idea  of  a  connection  between  us  ever 
existed. 

I  shall  always  rejoice  at  the  news  of  your  wel- 


202  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

fare,  and   my   ardent  prayers  will  daily  arise  for 
your  temporal  and  eternal  felicity. 

.1.  BOYER. 


LETTER    XLVIII. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HARTFORD. 

Health,  placid  serenity,  and  every  domestic  pleas 
ure  are  the  lot  of  my  friend ;  while  I,  who  once 
possessed  the  means  of  each,  and  the  capacity  of 
tasting  them,  have  been  tossed  upon  the  waves  of 
folly,  till  I  am  shipwrecked  on  the  shoals  of  despair. 

O  my  friend,  I  am  undone.  I  am  slighted,  re 
jected,  by  the  man  who  once  sought  my  hand,  by 
the  man  who  still  retains  my  heart.  And  what 
adds  an  insupportable  poignancy  to  the  reflection 
is  self-condemnation.  From  this  inward  torture 
where  shall  I  flee  ?  Where  shall  I  seek  that  hap 
piness  which  I  have  madly  trifled  away  ? 

The  enclosed  letters*  will  show  you  whence  this 
tumult  of  soul  arises.  But  I  blame  not  Mr.  Boyer. 
He  has  acted  nobly.  I  approve  his  conduct,  though 
it  operates  my  ruin. 

*  See  the  two  preceding  letters. 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   20H 

He  is  worthy  of  his  intended  bride,  and  she  is  — 
what  I  am  not  —  worthy  of  him.  Peace  and  joy 
be  their  portion  both  here  and  hereafter.  But 
what  are  now  my  prospects  ?  What  are  to  be  the 
future  enjoyments  of  my  life  ? 

O  that  I  had  not  written  to  Mr.  Boyer!  By 
confessing  my  faults,  and  by  avowing  my  par 
tiality  to  him,  I  have  given  him  the  power  of  tri 
umphing  in  my  distress ;  of  returning  to  my  tor 
tured  heart  all  the  pangs  of  slighted  love.  And 
what  have  I  now  to  console  me?  My  bloom  is 
decreasing,  my  health  is  sensibly  impaired.  Those 
talents,  with  the  possession  of  which  I  have  been 
flattered,  will  be  of  little  avail  when  unsupported 
by  respectability  of  character.  My  mamma,  who 
knows  too  well  the  distraction  of  my  mind,  en 
deavors  to  soothe  and  compose  me  on  Christian 
principles ;  but  they  have  not  their  desired  effect. 
I  dare  not  converse  freely  writh  her  on  the  subject 
of  my  present  uneasiness,  lest  I  should  distress 
her.  I  am  therefore  obliged  to  conceal  my  dis 
quietude,  and  appear  as  cheerful  as  possible  in  her 
company,  though  my  heart  is  ready  to  burst  with 
grief.  O  that  you  were  near  me,  as  formerly,  to 
share  and  alleviate  my  cares !  To  have  some 
friend  in  whom  I  could  repose  confidence,  and  with 
whom  I  could  freely  converse  and  advise  on  this 


204  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

occasion,  \vould  be  an  unspeakable-comfort.  Such 
a  one,  next  to  yourself,  I  think  Julia  Granby  to  be. 
With  your  leave  and  consent,  I  should  esteem  it  a 
special  favor  if  she  would  come  and  spend  a  few 
months  with  me.  My  mamma  joins  in  this  re 
quest.  I  would  write  to  her  on  the  subject,  but 
cannot  compose  myself  at  present.  Will  you 
prefer  my  petition  for  me  ? 

If  I  have  not  forfeited  your  friendship,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Sumner,  •  write  to  me,  and  pour  its  healing 
balm  into  the  wounded  mind  of  your 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    XLIX. 

To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

Your  truly  romantic  letter  came  safe  to  hand. 
Indeed,  my  dear,  it  would  make  a  very  pretty 
figure  in  a  novel.  A  bleeding  heart,  slighted  love, 
and  all  the  et  cetcras  of  romance  enter  into  the 
composition. 

Excuse  this  raillery,  and  I  will  now  write  more 
seriously.  You  refer  yourself  to  my  friendship  for 
consolation.  It  shall  be  exerted  for  the  purpose. 
But  I  must  act  the  part  of  a  skilful  surgeon,  and 
probe  the  wound  which  I  undertake  to  heal. 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   205 

Whe-re,  O  Eliza  Wharton,  where  is  that  fund 
of  sense  and  sentiment  which  once  animated  your 
engaging  form  ?  Where  that  strength  of  mind, 
that  independence  of  soul,  that  alacrity  and  spright- 
liness  of  deportment,  which  formerly  raised  you 
superior  to  every  adverse  occurrence  ?  Why  have 
you  resigned  these  valuable  endowments,  and  suf 
fered  yourself  to  become  the  sport  of  contending 
passions  ? 

You  have  now  emerged  from  that  mist  of  fanci 
ful  folly  which  in  a  measure  obscured  the  brilliance 
of  your  youthful  days. 

True,  you  figured  among  the  first-rate  coquettes, 
while  your  friends,  who  knew  your  accomplish 
ments,  lamented  the  misapplication  of  them ;  but 
now  they  rejoice  at  the  returning  empire  of  reason. 

True,  you  have  erred  ;  misled  by  the  gayety  of 
your  disposition,  and  that  volatility  and  inconsid- 
eration  which  were  incident  to  your  years  ;  but 
you  have  seen  and  nobly  confessed  your  errors. 
Why  do  you  talk  of  slighted  love  ?  True,  Mr. 
Boyer,  supposing  you  disregarded  him,  transferred 
his  affections  to  another  object ;  but  have  you  not 
your  admirers  still  among  men  of  real  merit  ? 
Are  you  not  esteemed  and  caressed  by  numbers 
who  know  you  capable  of  shining  in  a  distin 
guished  sphere  of  life  ?  Turn  then,  my  friend, 


206  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

from  tne  gloomy  prospect  which  your  disturbed 
imagination  has  brought  into  view.  Let  reason 
and  religion  erect  their  throne  in  your  breast ;  obey 
their  dictates,  and  be  happy.  Past  experience  will 
point  out  the  quicksands  which  you  are  to  avoid 
in  your  future  course. 

Date' then,  from  this,  a  new  era  of  life  ;  and  may 
every  moment  be  attended  with  felicity.  Follow 
Mr.  Boyer's  advice,  and  forget  all  former  connec 
tions. 

Julia  accepts  your  invitation.  Nothing  short  of 
your  request  could  induce  me  to  part  with  her. 
She  is  a  good  girl,  and  her  society  will  amuse  and 
instruct  you.  I  am,  &c., 

LUCY  SUMNER. 


LETTER    L. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HAETFORD. 

My  Julia  Granby  has  arrived.  She  is  all  that  I 
once  was  —  easy,  sprightly,  debonnaire.  Already 
has  she  done  much  towards  relieving  my  mind. 
She  endeavors  to  divert  and  lead  rny  thoughts  into 
a  different  channel  from  that  to  which  they  are  now 
prone.  Yesterday  we  had  each  an  invitation  to  a 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAKTON.   207 

ball.  She  labored  hard  to  prevail  on  me  to  go, 
but  I  obstinately  refused.  I  cannot  yet  mix  with 
gay  and  cheerful  circles.  I  therefore  alleged  that 
I  was  indisposed,  and  persuaded  her  to  go  with 
out  me. 

The  events  of  my  life  have  always  been  unac 
countably  wayward.  In  many  instances  I  have 
been  ready  to  suppose  that  some  evil  genius  pre 
sided  over  my  actions,  which  has  directed  them 
contrary  to  the  sober  dictates  of  my  own  judg 
ment.  I  am  sometimes  tempted  to  adopt  the  senti 
ment  expressed  in  the  following  lines  of  the  poet:  — 

"  To  you,  great  gods,  I  make  my  last  appeal ; 
O,  clear  my  conscience,  or  my  crimes  reveal ! 
If  wandering  through  the  paths  of  life  I've  run, 
And  backward  trod  the  steps  I  sought  to  shun, 
Impute  my  errors  to  your  own  decree  ; 
My  feet  were  guilty,  but  my  heart  was  free." 

I  suppose  you  will  tell  me  that  the  fate  I  accuse 
through  the  poet  is  only  the  result  of  my  own  im 
prudence.  Well,  be  it  what  it  may,  —  either  the  im 
pulse  of  my  own  passions  or  some  higher  efficiency, 
—  sure  I  am  that  I  pay  dear  for  its  operation. 

I  have  heard  it  remarked  that  experience  is  the 
preceptor  of  fools,  but  that  the  wise  need  not  its 
instruction.  T  believe  T  must  be  content  to  rank 


208  THE  COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

accordingly,  and  endeavor  to  reap  advantage  from 
its  tuition. 

Julia  urges  me  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  amuse 
ments  and  pleasure,  in  which,  she  tells  me,  she  is 
actuated  by  selfish  motives.  She  wishes  it  for  her 
own  sake.  She  likes  neither  to  be  secluded  from 
them  nor  to  go  alone.  I  am  sometimes  half  in 
clined  to  seek  in  festive  mirth  a  refuge  from 
thought  and  reflection.  I  would  escape,  if  possi 
ble,  from  the  idea  of  Mr.  Boyer.  This  I  have 
never  been  able  to  accomplish  since  he  dropped  a 
tear  upon  my  hand  and  left  me.  I  marked  the 
spot  with  my  eye,  and  twenty  times  in  a  day  do  I 
view  it,  and  fondly  imagine  it  still  there.  How 
could  I  give  him  pain !  I  hope  his  happy  Maria 
never  will.  I  hope  she  will  reward  that  merit 
which  I  have  slighted.  But  I  forbear.  This  theme 
carries  away  my  pen  if  I  but  touch  upon  it.  And 
no  wonder,  for  it  is  the  sole  exercise  of  my  thoughts. 
Yet  I  will  endeavor  to  divert  them.  Send  me 
some  new  books ;  not  such,  however,  as  will  re 
quire  much  attention.  Let  them  be  plays  and 
novels,  or  any  thing  else  that  will  amuse  or  extort 
a  smile.  Julia  and  I  have  been  rambling  in  the 
garden.  She  insisted  upon  my  going  with  her  into 
the  arbor,  where  I  was  surprised  with  Major  San- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF    ELTZA   WHARTON.   209 

ford.  What  a  crowd  of  painful  ideas  rushed  upon 
my  imagination  !  I  believe  she  repented  of  her 
rashness.  But  no  more  of  this.  I  must  lay  aside 
my  pen,  for  1  can  write  nothing  else. 

ELI/A   WHARTON. 


LETTER    LI. 

To   MRS.   LUCY   SUMNER. 

HARTFOKD. 

Dear  madam  :  You  commanded  me  to  write 
you  respecting  Miss  Wharton,  and  I  obey.  But 
I  cannot  describe  to  you  the  surprising  change 
which  she  has  undergone.  Her  vivacity  has  cer 
tainly  forsaken  her;  and  she  has  actually  become, 
what  she  once  dreaded  above  all  things,  a  recluse. 
She  flies  from  company  as  eagerly  as  she  formerly 
sought  it ;  her  mamma  is  exceedingly  distressed 
by  the  settled  melancholy  which  appears  in  her 
darling  child ;  but  neither  of  us  think  it  best  to 
mention  the  subject  to  her.  We  endeavor  to  find 
means  to  amuse  her  ;  and  we  flatter  ourselves  that 
the  prospect  of  success  rather  increases.  It  would 
add  greatly  to  my  happiness  to  contribute,  in  any 
degree,  to  restore  her  to  herself,  to  her  friends,  and 
to  society. 
13 


210  THE    COQUETTE;    OT?.    Tl'.F. 

We  are  all  invited  to  dine  abroad  to-morrow; 
and,  to  oblige  me,  she  has  consented  to  go. 

Pray,  madam,  write  to  her  often.  Your  letters 
may  do  much  for  her.  She  is  still  feelingly  alive 
to  the  power  of  friendship;  and  none  can  exercise 
it  upon  her  to  greater  acceptance  or  with  more  ad 
vantage  than  yourself. 

Major  Sanford's  house  is  undergoing  a  complete 
repair.  The  report  is,  that  he  is  soon  to  be  mar 
ried.  Miss  Wharton  has  heard,  but  does  not  be 
lieve  it.  I  hope  for  her  sake  it  will  prove  true ; 
for,  at  any  rate,  he  is  about  returning ;  and  from 
her  mamma's  account  of  his  past  conduct  towards 
Elixa,  were  he  to  return  unconnected,  he  would 
probably  renew  his  attentions  ;  and  though  they 
might  end  in  marriage,  her  happiness  would  not 
be  secured.  She  has  too  nice  a  sense  of  love  and 
honor  to  compound  with  his  licentious  principles. 
A  man  who  has  been  dissolute  before  marriage 
will  very  seldom  be  faithful  afterwards. 

I  went  into  Eliza's  charr  oer  the  other  day,  and 
found  her  with  a  miniature  picture  in  her  hand. 
"  You  pretend  to  be  a  physiognomist,  Julia,"  said 
she.  "  What  can  you  trace  in  that  countenance  ?" 
I  guessed  whose  it  was ;  and  looking  wistfully  at 
it,  replied,  "  I  believe  the  original  is  an  artful,  de 
signing  man.  He  looks  to  me  like  a  Chesterfield- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS    OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    211 

ian.  Pray  who  is  he  ?  "  "  Major  Sanford,"  said 
she ;  "  and  I  am  afraid  you  have  hit  his  character 
exactly.  Sure  I  am  that  the  appearance  of  those 
traits  in  it  has  made  my  heart  ache."  She  wept 
as  she  spoke  it. 

Poor  girl,  I  wish  he  may  never  give  you  greater 
c^use  to  weep  !  She  is  strongly  blind  to  the  vices 
and  imperfections  of  this  man.  Though  naturally 
penetrating,  he  has  somehow  or  other  cast  a  de- 
ceptious  mist  over  her  imagination  with  respect  to 
himself.  She  professes  neither  to  love  nor  esteem 
him,  and  owns  that  his  ungenerous  artifice  misled 
her  in  her  treatment  of  Mr.  Boyer.  Yet  she  has 
forgiven  him,  and  thinks  him  a  pleasing  companion. 

How  prone  to  error  is  the  human  mind !  how 
much  lighter  than  the  breath  of  zephyrs-the  opera- 
lions  of  fancy !  Strange,  then,  it  should  ever 
preponderate  over  the  weightier  powers  of  the  un 
derstanding. 

But  I  will  not  moralize.  My  business  here  is 
to  dissipate,  not  to  collect,  ideas  ;  and  I  must  regu- 
latc  myself  accordingly. 

I  am  endeavoring  to  prepare  Eliza,  by  degrees, 
lo  accompany  me  to  Boston  the  ensuing  winter, 
but  think  it  doubtful  whether  I  shall  succeed.  I 
shall,  however,  return  myself:  till  when,  I  am,  &c., 

JULIA  GRANBY., 


212  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

LETTER    LIT 

To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

My  dear  Eliza  :  I  received  yours  of  the  24th  ult,, 
and  thank  you  for  it,  though  it  did  not  afford  me 
those  lively  sensations  of  pleasure  which  I  usually 
feel  at  the  perusal  of  your  letters.  It  inspired  me 
both  with  concern  and  chagrin  —  with  concern 
lest  your  dejection  of  mind  should  affect  your 
health,  and  with  chagrin  at  your  apparent  indul 
gence  of  melancholy.  Indeed,  rny  friend,  your 
own  happiness  and  honor  require  you  to  dissipate 
the  cloud  which  hangs  over  your  imagination. 

Rise  then  above  it,  and  prove  yourself  superior 
to  the  adverse  occurrences  which  have  befallen  you. 
It  is  by  surmounting  difficulties,  not  by  sinking 
under  them,  that  we  discover  our  fortitude.  True 
courage  consists  not  in  flying  from  the  storms  of 
life,  but  in  braving  and  steering  through  them 
with  prudence.  Avoid  solitude.  It  is  the  bane 
of  a  disordered  mind,  though  of  great  utility  to 
a  healthy  one.  Your  once  favorite  amusements 
court  your  attention.  Refuse  not  their  solicita 
tions.  I  have  contributed  my  mite  by  sending 
you  a  few  books,  such  as  you  requested.  They 
are  of  the  lighter  kind  of  reading,  yet  perfectly 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA  WHARTON.    213 

chaste,  and,  if  I  mistake  not,  well  adapted  to  your 
taste. 

You  wish  to  hear  from  our  theatre.  I  believe  it 
will  be  well  supplied  with  performers  this  winter. 
Come  and  see  whether  they  can  afford  you  any  en 
tertainment.  Last  evening  I  attended  a  tragedy; 
but  never  will  I  attend  another.  I  have  not  yet  been 
able  to  erase  the  gloom  which  it  impressed  upon 
my  mind.  It  was  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Distressing 
enough  to  sensibility  this !  Are  there  not  real  woes 
(if  not  in  our  own  families,  at  least  among  our  own 
friends  and  neighbors)  sufficient  to  exercise  our 
sympathy  and  pity,  without  introducing  fictitious 
ones  into  our  very  diversions  ?  How  can  that  be 
a  diversion  which  racks  the  soul  with  grief,  even 
though  that  grief  be  imaginary  ?  The  introduc 
tion  of  a  funeral  solemnity  upon  the  stage  is  shock 
ing  indeed ! 

Death  is  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  sported  with. 
An  opening  grave  cannot  be  a  source  of  amuse 
ment  to  any  considerate  mind.  The  closing  scene 
of  life  can  be  no  pastime  when  realized.  It  must 
therefore  awaken  painful  sensations  in  the  repre 
sentation. 

The  circus  is  a  place  of  fashionable  resort  of 
late,  but  not  agreeable  to  me.  I  think  it  incon 
sistent  with  the  delicacy  of  a  lady  even  to  witness 


214:  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

the  indecorums  which  are  practised  there,  especially 
when  the  performers  of  equestrian  feats  are  of  our 
own  sex.  To  see  a  woman  depart  so  far  from  the 
female  character  as  to  assume  the  masculine  habit 
and  attitude,  and  appear  entirely  indifferent  even 
to  the  externals  of  modesty,  is  truly  disgusting, 
and  ought  not  to  be  countenanced  by  our  attend 
ance,  much  less  by  our  approbation.  But,  setting 
aside  the  circumstance,  I  cannot  conceive  it  to  be 
a  pleasure  to  sit  a  whole  evening  trembling  with 
apprehension  lest  the  poor  wight  of  a  horseman, 
or  juggler,  or  whatever  he  is  to  be  called,  should 
break  his  neck  in  contributing  to  our  entertainment 

With  Mr.  Bowen's  museum  I  think  you  were 
much  pleased.  He  has  made  a  number  of  judi 
cious  additions  to  it  since  you  were  here.  It  is  a 
source  of  rational  and  refined  amusement.  Here 
the  eye  is  gratified,  the  imagination  charmed,  and 
the  understanding  improved.  It  will  bear  frequent 
reviews  without  palling  on  the  taste.  It  always 
affords  something  new ;  and,  for  one,  I  am  never  a 
weary  spectator.  Our  other  public  and  private 
places  of  resort  are  much  as  you  left  them. 

I  am  happy  in  my  present  situation ;  but  when 
the  summer  returns,  I  intend  to  visit  my  native 
home.  Again,  my  Eliza,  will  we  ramble  together 
in  those  retired  shades  which  friendship  has  ren- 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.   215 

dered  so  delightful  to  us.     Adieu,  my  friend,  till 
then.     Be  cheerful,  and  you  will  yet  be  happy. 

LUCY  SUMNER. 


LETTER    LI  1 1. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HARTFOKD. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  What  have  I  heard  ?  Major 
Sanford  is  married  !  Yes  ;  the  ungrateful,  the  de 
ceitful  wretch  is  married.  He  has  forsworn,  he 
has  perjured  and  given  himself  to  another.  That, 
you  will  say,  is  nothing  strange.  It  is  character 
istic  of  the  man.  It  may  be  so ;  but  I  could  not 
be  convinced  of  his  perfidy  till  now. 

Perhaps  it  is  all  for  the  best.  Perhaps,  had  he 
remained  unconnected,  he  might  still  have  de 
ceived  me ;  but  now  I  defy  his  arts. 

They  tell  me  he  has  married  a  woman  of  for 
tune.  I  suppose  he  thinks,  as  I  once  did,  that 
wealth  can  insure  happiness.  I  wish  he  may 
enjoy  it. 

This  event  would  not  affect  me  at  all  were  it 
not  for  the  depression  of  spirits  which  I  feel  in 
consequence  of  a  previous  disappointment ;  since 
which  every  thing  of  the  kind  agitates  and  over- 


216  THE    COQUKTTK;    OR,    THE 

comes  me.  I  will  not  see  him.  If  I  do,  I  shall 
betray  my  weakness,  and  flatter  his  vanity,  as  he 
will  doubtless  think  he  has  the  power  of  mortifying 
me  by  his  connection  with  another. 

Before  this  news  discomposed  me,  I  had  attained 
to  a  good  degree  of  cheerfulness.  Your  kind  letter, 
seconded  by  Julia's  exertions,  had  assisted  me  in 
regulating  my  sensibility.  I  have  been  frequently 
into  company,  and  find  my  relish  for  it  gradually 
returning. 

I  intend  to  accept  the  pleasure,  to  which  you 
invite  me,  of  spending  a  little  time  with  you  this 
winter.  Julia  and  I  will  come  together.  Varying 
the  scene  may  contribute  effectually  to  dissipate 
the  gloom  of  my  imagination.  I  would  fly  to  al 
most  any  resort  rather  than  my  own  mind.  What 
a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to  be  afraid  of  one's  own 
reflections,  which  ought  to  be  a  constant  source  of 
enjoyment !  But  I  will  not  moralize.  I  am  suffi 
ciently  melancholy  without  any  additional  cause 
to  increase  it. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.  217 

LETTER    LIV. 

To   MK.   CHARLES  BRIGHTON. 

HARTFORD. 

Dear  Dcighton  :  Who  do  you  think  is  writing 
to  you  ?  Why,  it  is  your  old  friend,  metamor 
phosed  into  a  married  man  !  You  stare,  and  can 
hardly  credit  the  assertion.  I  cannot,  realize  it  my 
self ;  yet  I  assure  you,  Charles,  it  is  absolutely  true. 
Necessity,  dire  necessity,  forced  me  into  this  dernier 
resort.  I  told  you  some  time  ago  it  would  come  to 
this. 

I  stood  aloof  as  long  as  possible ;  but  in  vain 
did  I  attempt  to  shun  the  noose.  I  must  either  fly 
to  this  resource  or  give  up  all  my  show,  equipage, 
and  pleasure,  and  degenerate  into  a  downright, 
plodding  money  catcher  for  a  subsistence.  I  chose 
the  first ;  and  who  would  not  ?  Yet  I  feel  some 
remorse  at  taking  the  girl  to  wife  from  no  better 
motives.  She  is  really  too  good  for  such  an  impo 
sition.  But  she  must  blame  herself  if  she  suffer 
hereafter;  for  she  was  visibly  captivated  by  my 
external  appearance,  and  wanted  but  very  little 
solicitation  to  confer  herself  and  fortune  on  so 
charming  a  fellow.  Her  parents  opposed  her  in 
clination  for  a  while,  because  I  was  a  stranger, 
and  rather  too  gay  for  their  taste.  But  she  had 


218  THE  CQQUETTE;   OR,    THE 

not  been  used  to  contradiction,  and  could  not  bear 
it,  and  therefore  they  ventured  not  to  cross  her. 
So  I  bore  off  the  prize ;  and  a  prize  she  really  is 
—  five  thousand  pounds  in  possession,  and  more 
in  reversion,  if  I  do  not  forfeit  it.  This  will  com 
pensate  for  some  of  my  past  mistakes,  and  set 
matters  right  for  the  present.  I  think  it  doing 
much  better  than  to  have  taken  the  little  Law 
rence  girl  I  told  you  of  with  half  the  sum.  Be 
sides,  my  Nancy  is  a  handsomer  and  more  agree 
able  person  ;  but  that  is  of  little  consequence  to 
me,  you  know.  "  Beauty  soon  grows  familiar  to 
the  lover."  Were  I  a  lover,  it  would  be  of  no 
great  avail.  A  lover  I  am,  yet  not  of  my  wife. 
The  dart  which  I  received  from  Miss  Wharton 
sticks  fast  in  my  heart ;  and,  I  assure  you,  I  could 
hardly  persuade  myself  even  to  appear  unfaithful 
to  her.  O  Eliza  !  accuse  me  not  of  infidelity ;  for 
your  image  is  my  constant  companion.  A  thou 
sand  times  have  I  cursed  the  unpropitious  stars 
which  withheld  from  her  a  fortune.  That  would 
have  enabled  me  to  marry  her ;  and  with  her  even 
wedlock  would  have  been  supportable. 

I  am  told  that  she  is  still  single.  Her  sober 
lover  never  returned.  Had  he  loved  as  I  did,  and 
do,  he  could  not  have  been  so  precipitate.  But 
these  stoic  souls  are  good  for  nothing,  that  I  know 
of,  but, 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.    219 

"  Fixed,  like  a  plant,  to  one  peculiar  spot, 
To  draw  nutrition,  propagate,  and  rot." 

I  want  to  see  Eliza,  and  I  must  see  her ;  yet  I 
dread  an  interview.  I  shall  frankly  confess  my 
motives  for  marrying,  and  the  reasons  of  my  con- 
duet  before  I  went  away.  I  shall  own  that  my 
circumstances  would  not  allow  me  to  possess  her, 
and  yet  that  I  could  not  resign  her  to  another. 

When  I  make  up  the  matter  with  her,  I  shall 
solicit  her  friendship  for  my  wife.  By  this  means 
I  may  enjoy  her  society,  at  least,  which  will  alle 
viate  the  confinement  of  a  married  state.  To  my 
spouse  I  must  be  as  civil  as  possible.  I  really  wish 
she  had  less  merit,  that  I  might  have  a  plausible 
excuse  for  neglecting  her. 

To-morrow  I  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Wharton's.  I  am 
very  much  taken  up  with  complimental  visits  at 
present.  What  deference  is  always  paid  to  equi 
page  !  They  may  talk  of  their  virtue,  their  learn 
ing,  and  what  not ;  but,  without  either  of  them,  I 
shall  bear  oft'  the  palm  of  respect  from  those  who 
have  them,  unadorned  with  gold  and  its  shining 
appendages. 

Every  thing  hereabouts  recalls  Eliza  to  my  mind. 
I  impatiently  anticipate  the  hour  which  will  con 
vey  me  to  her  presence. 

PETER  SANFORD. 


220  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OB,    THE 

LETTER    LV. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HABTFORD. 

A  new  scene  has  opened  upon  us  to-day,  my 
dear  Mrs.  Sumner  —  a  visit  from  Major  Sanford. 
My  mamma,  Miss  Granby,  and  myself  were  sit 
ting  together  in  the  chamber.  Miss  Granby  was 
entertaining  us  by  reading  aloud  in  Millet's  El 
ements  of  History,  when  a  servant  rapped  at  the 
door,  and  handed  in  the  following  billet :  — 

"  Will  Miss  Wharton  condescend  to  converse  a 
few  moments  with  her  once-favored  Sanford  ?  He 
is  but  too  sensible  that  he  has  forfeited  all  claim 
to  the  privilege.  He  therefore  presumes  not  to 
request  it  on  the  score  of  merit,  nor  of  former  ac 
quaintance,  but  solicits  it  from  her  benevolence 
and  pity." 

I  read  and  showed  it  to  my  mamma  and  Julia. 
"  What,"  said  I,  "  shall  I  do  ?  I  wish  not  to  see 
him.  His  artifice  has  destroyed  my  peace  of  mind, 
and  his  presence  may  open  the  wounds  which  time 
is  closing."  "  Act,"  said  my  mamma,  "  agreeably 
to  the  dictates  of  your  own  judgment."  "  I  see 
no  harm  in  conversing  with  him,"  said  Julia.  "  Per 
haps  it  may  remove  some  disagreeable  thoughts 
which  now  oppress  and  give  you  pain.  And  as  he 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.    221. 

is  no  longer  a  candidate  for  your  affections,"  added 
she  with  a  smile,  "  it  will  be  less  hazardous  than 
formerly.  He  will  not  have  the  insolence  to  speak, 
nor  you  the  folly  to  hear,  the  language  of  love." 

He  was  accordingly  invited  in.  When  I  rose  to 
go  down,  I  hesitated,  and  even  trembled.  "  I  fear," 
said  I  to  myself,  "  it  will  be  too  much  for  me ;  yet 
why  should  it?  Conscious  innocence  will  support 
me.  This  he  has  not."  When  I  entered  the  room 
he  stepped  forward  to  meet  me.  Confusion  and 
shame  were  visibly  depicted  in  his  countenance. 
He  approached  me  hastily,  and  without  uttering  a 
word,  took  my  hand.  1  withdrew  it.  "  O  Miss 
Wharton,"  said  he,  "  despise  me  not.  I  am  con 
vinced  that  I  deserve  your  displeasure  and  disdain ; 
but  my  own  heart  has  avenged  your  cause."  "  To 
your  own  heart,  then,"  said  I,  "  I  will  leave  you. 
But  why  do  you  again  seek  an  interview  with  one 
whom  you  have  endeavored  to  mislead  —  with  one 
whom  you  have  treated  with  unmerited  neglect?" 
"Justice  to  myself  required  my  appearing  before 
you,  that,  by  confessing  my  faults  and  obtaining 
your  forgiveness,  I  might  soften  the  reproaches  of 
my  own  mind."  "  Will  you  be  seated,  sir  ?  "  said  I. 
"  Will  you,"  rejoined  he,  "  condescend  to  sit  with 
me,  Eliza?"  "I  will,  sir,"  answered  I.  "The 
rights  of  hospitality  I  shall  not  infringe.  In  my 


222  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

own  house,  therefore,  I  shall  treat  you  with  civil 
ity."  "  Indeed,"  said  he,  "  you  are  very  severe  ; 
but  I  have  provoked  all  the  coldness  and  reserve 
which  you  can  inflict. 

"  I  am  a  married  man,  Eliza."  "  So  I  under 
stand,"  said  I ;  "  and  I  hope  you  will  never  treat 
your  wife  with  that  dissimulation  and  falsehood 
which  you  have  exercised  towards  me."  "  Would 
t6  Heaven,"  exclaimed  he,  "  that  you  were  my 
wife.  I  should  not,  then,  fail  in  my  love  or  duty 
as  a  husband ;  yet  she  is  an  amiable  girl,  and,  had 
I  a  heart  to  give  her,  I  might  still  be  happy;  but 
that,  alas!  I  can  never  recall."  "  Why,  then,"  said 
I,  "  did  you  marry  her  ?  You  were,  doubtless, 
master  of  your  own  actions."  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I 
was  not.  The  embarrassed  state  of  my  affairs  pre 
cluded  the  possibility  of  acting  as  I  wished.  Lov 
ing  you  most  ardently,  I  was  anxious  to  prevent 
your  union  with  another,  till  I  could  so  far  improve 
my  circumstances  as  to  secure  you  from  poverty 
and  want  in  a  connection  with  me.  My  regard 
was  too  sincere  to  permit  me  to  deceive  you  by  a 
marriage  which  might  have  proved  unhappy  for  us 
both.  My  pride  forbade  my  telling  you  the  mo 
tives  of  my  delay  ;  and  I  left  you  to  see  if  I  could 
place  myself  in  a  situation  worthy  of  your  accept 
ance.  This  I  could  not  effect,  and,  therefore, 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF   ELTZA    YTTTARTOX.    22°. 

have  run  the  risk  of  my  future  happiness  by  mar 
rying  a  lady  of  affluence.  This  secures  to  me  the 
externals  of  enjoyment,  but  my  heart,  I  fear,  will 
never  participate  it ;  yet  it  affords  me  some  degree 
of  satisfaction  that  I  have  not  involved  you  in  dis 
tress.  The  only  alleviation  of  which  my  banish 
ment  from  you  is  capable,  is  your  forgiveness.  In 
compassion,  then,  refuse  it  not.  It  cannof  injure 
you.  To  me  it  will  be  worth  millipns."  He 
wept.  Yes,  Lucy,  this  libertine,  this  man  of  pleas 
ure  and  gallantry,  wept.  I  really  pitied  him  from 
my  heart.  "  I  forgive  you,"  said  I,  "  and  wish  you 
happy ;  yet  on  this  condition  only,  that  you  never 
again  pollute  my  ears  with  the  recital  of  your  in 
famous  passion.  Yes,  infamous  I  call  it;  for 
what  softer  appellation  can  be  given  to  such  pro 
fessions  from  a  married  man  ?  Harbor  not  an  idea 
of  me,  in  future,  inconsistent  with  the  love  and 
fidelity  which  you  owe  your  wife ;  much  less  pre 
sume  to  mention  it,  if  you  wish  not  to  be  detested 
by  me,  and  forever  banished  from  my  presence." 
He  expressed  gratitude  for  his  absolution,  even 
upon  these  terms,  and  hoped  his  future  conduct 
would  entitle  him  to  my  friendship  and  esteem. 
"  That,"  I  replied,  "  time  only  can  determine." 

One    favor   more    he    begged    leave   to    solicit; 
which  was,  that  I  would  be  a  neighbor  to  his  wife. 


224  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OK,    THE 

"She  was  a  stranger,"  he  said,  "and  would  deem 
my  society  a  particular  privilege."  This,  I  told 
him,  I  could  not  grant  at  present,  whatever  I  might 
do  hereafter.  He  did  not  urge  it  any  further,  but 
inquired  after  my  mamma,  and  expressed  a  wish 
to  see  her.  I  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  her  and 
Miss  Granby  to  be  called.  When  they  came  he 
was  very  polite  to  them  both,  and,  after  usual 
compliments,  told  my  mamma  that  he  was  happy 
in  having  obtained  my  forgiveness,  to  which  he 
was  anxious  to  have  her  seal  affixed.  "  My  daugh 
ter,"  said  she,  "is  the  injured  party;  and  if  she  be 
satisfied,  I  shall  not  complain."  He  thanked  her 
for  her  condescension,  informed  her  that  he  was 
married,  and  requested  her  to  visit  his  wife.  We 
then  conversed  upon  different  subjects  for  a  short 
time,  and  he  took  his  leave.  A  sigh  escaped  him 
as  he  departed,  and  a  gloom  was  visible  in  his 
countenance  which  I  never  observed  before. 

I  must  acknowledge  that  this  interview  has  given 
me  satisfaction.  I  have  often  told  you,  that  if  I 
married  Major  Sanford,  it  would  be  from  a  predi 
lection  for  his  situation  in  life.  How  wretched 
must  have  been  my  lot,  had  I  discovered,  too  late, 
that  he  was  by  no  means  possessed  of  the  inde 
pendence  which  I  fondly  anticipated!  I  knew 
not  my  own  heart,  when  T  contemplated  a  connec- 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTOJST.   225 

tion  \vith  him.  Little  did  I  think  that  my  regard 
for  Mr.  Boyer  was  so  deeply  rooted  as  I  now  find 
it,  I  foolishly  imagined  that  T  could  turn  rny  af- 
i'ections  into  what  channel  I  pleased.  What,  then, 
must  have  been  my  feelings,  when  I  found  myself 
deprived  both  of  inward  peace  and  outward  enjoy 
ment!  I  begin  now  to  emerge  from  the  darkness 
in  which  I  have  been  long  benighted.  I  hope  the 
tragic  comedy,  in  which  I  have  acted  so  conspic 
uous  a  part,  will  come  to  a  happy  end. 

Julia  and  I  talk,  now  and  then,  of  a  journey  to 
Boston.  As  yet,  I  have  not  resolution  to  act  with 
much  decision  upon  the  subject ;  but,  wherever  I 
am,  and  whatever  may  be  my  fate,  I  shall  always 
be  yours  in  truth, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    LVI. 

To   MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HAKTFORD. 

I  begin  to  hope  we  shall  come  to  rights  here  by 
and  by.  Major  Sanford  has  returned,  has  made 
us  a  visit,  and  a  treaty  of  peace  and  amity  (but 
not  of  commerce)  is  ratified.  Eliza  appears  to  be 
rapidly  returning  to  her  former  cheerfulness  —  if 
M 


226  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

not  gayety.  I  hope  she  will  not  diverge  too  far 
from  her  present  sedateness  and  solidity ;  yet  I  am 
not  without  apprehensions  of  danger  on  that  score. 
One  extreme  commonly  succeeds  another.  She 
tells  me  that  she  assiduously  cultivates  her  natural 
vivacity;  that  she  finds  her  taste  for  company  and 
amusements  increasing;  that  she  dreads  being 
alone,  because  past  scenes  arise  to  view  which  vex 
and  discompose  her. 

These  are  indications  of  a  mind  not  perfectly 
right.  I  flatter  myself,  however,  that  the  time  is 
not  far  distant  when  her  passions  will  vibrate  with 
regularity. 

I  need  not  repeat  to  you  any  thing  relative  to 
Major  Sanford's  conciliatory  visit.  Eliza  has  given 
you  a  particular,  and,  I  believe,  a  faithful  detail. 
I  was  called  down  to  see  this  wonderful  man,  and 
disliked  him  exceedingly.  I  am  astonished  that 
Eliza's  penetrating  eye  has  not  long  since  read  his 
vices  in  his  very  countenance.  I  am  told  by  a 
friend,  who  has  visited  them,  that  he  has  an  agree 
able  wife ;  and  I  wish  she  may  find  him  a  husband 
of  the  same  description  ;  but  I  very  much  doubt 
the  accomplishment  of  my  wish,  for  I  have  no 
charity  for  these  reformed  rakes. 

We  were  walking  abroad  the  other  afternoon, 
and  met  Major  Sanford  and  lady.  Eliza  did  not 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  ELIZA   WHARTON.   227 

see  them  till  they  were  very  near  us.  She  started, 
turned  pale,  and  then  colored  like  crimson.  I  can 
not  but  think  a  little  envy  rankled  in  her  heart. 
Major  San  ford  very  politely  accosted  us,  and  con 
gratulated  Mrs.  Sanford  on  this  opportunity  of 
introducing  her  to  a  particular  friend,  presenting 
Eliza.  She  received  her  with  an  easy  dignity,  and 
bade  her  welcome  to  this  part  of  the  country.  Mrs. 
Sanford  answered  her  modestly,  hoped  for  the 
pleasure  of  a  further  acquaintance,  and  urged  us, 
as  we  were  not  far  from  their  house,  to  return  with 
them  to  tea.  We  declined,  and  wishing  each 
other  good  evening,  parted.  Major  Sanford's  eyes 
were  riveted  on  Eliza  the  whole  time  we  were  to 
gether,  and  he  seemed  loath  to  remove  them  when 
we  separated.  I  suspect  there  is  some  truth  in  his 
tale  of  love.  I  shall  therefore  discourage  Eliza 
from  associating  with  him  under  any  pretext  what 
ever.  She  appeared  more  pensive  and  thoughtful 
than  common  as  we  returned  home,  and  said  little 
the  rest  of  the  evening,  but  next  morning  was  as 
chatty  as  ever. 

She  is  warm  in  the  praises  of  Mrs.  Sanford, 
thinks  her  an  accomplished  woman,  and  wonders 
that  the  major  could  suggest  an  idea  of  marry 
ing  her  for  her  money.  She  intends,  she  says,  to 
visit  her  soon,  and  wishes  me  to  accompany  her. 


228  THE   COQUETTE;    OR   THE 

This,  for  her  own  sake,  I  shall  defer  as  long  as 
possible.  I  am,  &c., 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LBTTBK    LVII. 
To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HARTFORD. 

By  Julia's  advice  we  have  neglected  the  repeat 
ed  invitations  of  Major  Sanford  to  visit  and  com 
mence  neighborhood  with  them  till  yesterday, 
when  we  received  a  polite  billet  requesting  the 
honor  of  our  company  to  dine.  My  mamma  de 
clined  going,  but  said  she  had  no  objection  to  our 
compliance  with  the  message  if  we  thought  proper. 
Julia  and  I  accordingly  went.  We  found  a  large 
company  assembled  in  a  spacious  hall,  splendidly 
furnished  and  decorated.  They  were  all  very  po 
lite  and  attentive  to  me,  but  none  more  so  than 
Major  Sanford  and  his  lady,  who  jointly  strove  to 
dissipate  the  pensiveness  of  my  mind,  which  I 
found  it  impossible  to  conceal.  When  we  were 
summoned  to  dinner,  the  major,  being  near  me, 
offered  his  hand,  and,  leading  me  into  the  dining, 
room,  seated  me  at  a  table  furnished  with  all  the 
variety  which  could  please  the  eve  or  regale  the 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.    229 

taote  of  the  most  luxurious  epicure.  The  conver 
sation  turned  on  various  subjects  —  literary,  po 
litical,  and  miscellaneous.  In  the  evening  we  had 
a  ball.  Major  Sanford  gave  the  hand  of  his  wife 
to  a  Mr.  Grey,  alleging  that  he  was  a  stranger, 
and  therefore  entitled  to  particular  attention,  and 
then  solicited  mine  himself.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  refusing  him,  but  recollecting  that  it  might  have 
the  appearance  of  continued  resentment,  contrary 
to  my  declaration  of  forgiving  what  was  past,  I 
complied.  He  was  all  kindness  and  assiduity; 
the  more  so,  I  imagined,  with  a  view  to  make 
amends  for  his  former  ingratitude  and  neglect. 
Tenderness  is  now  peculiarly  soothing  to  my 
wounded  heart.  He  took  an  opportunity  of  con 
versing  with  his  wife  and  me  together,  hoped  she 
would  be  honored  with  my  friendship  and  acquaint 
ance,  and  begged  for  her  sake  that  I  would  not  be  a 
stranger  at  his  house.  His  Nancy,  he  said,  was  far 
removed  from  her  maternal  friends,  but  I  could  sup 
ply  their  place  if  I  would  generously  undertake  the 
task.  She  joined  in  expressing  the  same  senti 
ments  and  wishes.  "Alas!  sir,"  said  I,  "  Eliza 
Wharton  is  not  now  what  she  once  was.  I  labor 
under  a  depression  of  spirits  which  must  render 
my  company  rather  painful  than  pleasing  to  my 
friends."  The  idea  of  what  J  had  been,  contrasted 


230  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

with  what  I  then  was,  touched  my  sensibility,  and 
I  could  not  restrain  the.  too  officious  tear  from 
stealing  down  my  cheek.  He  took  me  by  the 
hand,  and  said,  "  You  distress  me,  Miss  Wharton  ; 
indeed  you  distress  me.  Happiness  must  and 
shall  attend  you.  Cursed  be  the  wretch  who  could 
wound  a  heart  like  yours." 

Julia  Granby  now  joined  us.  An  inquisitive 
concern  was  visible  in  her  countenance. 

I  related  this  conversation  to  her  after  we  re 
turned  home  ;  but  she  approved  it  not. 

She  thought  Major  Sanford  too  particularly  at- 

>§ 
tentive    to    me,  considering  what    had  previously 

happened.  She  said  it  would  be  noticed  by  others, 
and  the  world  would  make  unfavorable  remarks 
upon  any  appearance  of  intimacy"  between  us. 
"  I  care  not  for  that,"  said  I ;  "it  is  an  ill-natured, 
misjudging  world,  and  I  am  not  obliged  to  sacri 
fice  my  friends  to  its  opinion.  Were  Major  San- 
ford  a  single  man,  I  should  avoid  his  society  ;  but 
since  he  is  married,  since  his  wife  is  young,  beau 
tiful,  and  lovely,  he  can  have  no  temptation  to  in 
jure  me.  I  therefore  see  no  evil  which  can  arise 
from  the  cultivation  of  friendship  with  her  at  least. 
I  relish  company  so  little,  that  I  may  surely  be  in 
dulged  in  selecting  that  which  is  most  agreeable  to 
my  taste,  to  prevent  my  becoming  quite  a  misan 
thrope." 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   231 

I  thank  you,  my  dear  Mrs.  Surnner,  for  your 
kind  letter.  It  was  a  seasonable  cordial  to  rny 
mind,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  profit  by  your  ad 
vice.  Your  remarks  on  the  public  entertainments 
are  amusing,  and,  as  far  as  I  am  a  judge,  perfectly 
just.  I  think  it  a  pity  they  have  not  female  man 
agers  for  the  theatre.  I  believe  it  would  be  under 
much  better  regulations  thaji  at  present. 

With  cordial  respects  to  Mr.  Sumner,  I  sub 
scribe  myself,  yours  in  sincerity, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    LVIII. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

HAKTFORD. 

Rejoice  with  rrie,  my  friend,  that  I  have  made 
my  peace  with  the  mistress  of  my  heart.  No 
devotee  could  have  been  more  sincere  in  his  peni 
tence  than  I  was  in  mine.  Indeed,  Charles,  I 
never  knew  I  had  so  much  sensibility  before. 
Why,  I  was  as  much  a  woman  as  the  very  weak 
est  of  the  sex. 

But  I  dealt  very  plainly  and  sincerely  with  her, 
to  be  sure  ;  and  this  atones  for  all  past  offences, 
and  procures  absolution  for  many  others  yet  to  be 
committed. 


232  THE   COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

The  dear  girl  was  not  inexorable  ;  she  was  as 
placable  and  condescending  as  I  could  expect,  con 
sidering  the  nature  of  the  crime,  which  was  ap 
parently  slighting  her  person  and  charms  by  mar 
rying  another.  This,  you  know,  is  one  of  the 
nicest  points  with  the  ladies.  Attack  their  honor, 
that  is,  their  chastity,  and  they  construe  it  to  be 
the  effect  of  excessive  love,  which  hurries  you  a 
little  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence.  But  touch 
their  vanity  by  preferring  another,  and  they  will 
seldom  pardon  you.  You  will  say  I  am  very 
severe  upon  the  sex ;  and  have  I  not  reason  to 
be  so,  since  I  have  found  so  many  frail  ones 
among  them  ?  This,  however,  is  departing  from, 
my  subject. 

Eliza  is  extremely  altered.  Her  pale,  dejected 
countenance,  with  the  sedateness  of  her  manners, 
so  different  from  the  lively  glow  of  health,  cheer 
fulness,  and  activity  which  formerly  animated  her 
appearance  and  deportment,  struck  me  very  dis 
agreeably. 

With  all  my  gallantry  and  fluency  in  love  mat 
ters,  I  was  unable  to  acquit  myself  tolerably,  or  to 
address  her  with  any  degree  of  ease  and  confi 
dence.  She  was  very  calm,  and  spoke  with  great 
indifference  about  my  marriage,  &c.,  which  moHi- 
fied  me  exceedingly.  Yet  I  cannot  consent  to  bo- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELTZA   WHARTON.    233 

lievc  that  her  present  depression  of  spirits  arises 
solely  from  Mr.  Boyer's  infidelity.  I  flatter  myself 
that  I  am  of  sufficient  consequence  to  her  to  have 
contributed  in  a  degree. 

When  I  inquired  after  her  health,  she  told 
me  she  had  been  indisposed,  but  was  now  much 
better.  This  indisposition,  I  am  informed,  was 
purely  mental ;  and  I  am  happy  to  observe  her  re 
covering  from  it.  I  frequently  visit  her,  sometimes 
with  and  sometimes  without  my  wife,  of  whom, 
through  my  mediation,  she  has  become  a  favorite. 
I  have  married,  and  according  to  the  general  opin 
ion  reformed.  Yet  I  suspect  my  reformation,  like 
most  others  of  the  kind,  will  prove  instable  as  "the 
baseless  fabric  of  a  vision,"  unless  I  banish  myself 
entirely  from  her  society.  Bat  that  I  can  never 
do  ;  for  she  is  still  lovely  in  my  eyes,  and  I  cannot 
control  my  passions. 

When  absent  from  her  I  am  lost  to  every  thing 
but  her  idea.  My  wife  begins  to  rally  me  on  my 
fondness  for  Miss  Wharton.  She  asked  me  the 
other  day  if  she  had  a  fortune.  "  No,"  said  I;  "if 
she  had  I  should  have  married  her."  This  wounded 
her  sensibility.  I  repented  of  my  sincerity,  and 
made  my  peace  for  that  time.  Yet  I  find  myself 
growing  extremely  irritable,  and  she  must  take 
heed  how  she  provokes  me  ;  for  I  do  not  love  her, 


234  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR   THE 

and  I  think  the  name  of  wife  becomes  more  and 
more  distasteful  to  me  every  day. 

In  my  rnind,  Eli/a  has  no  competitor.  But  I 
must  keep  up  appearances,  though  I  endeavor  to 
regain  her  love.  I  imagine  that  the  enjoyment  of 
her  society  as  a  neighbor  and  friend  may  content 
me  for  the  present,  and  render  my  condition  sup 
portable. 

Farewell,  Charles.  I  hope  you  will  never  be 
embarrassed  with  a  wife,  nor  lack  some  favorite 
nymph  to  supply  the  place  of  one. 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LETTER    L1X. 

To  MRS.  LUCY   SUMNER. 

HARTFORD. 

Dear  Lucy  :  I  intended  this  week  to  have  jour 
neyed  to  Boston  with  Julia  Granby;  but  my  reso 
lution  fails  me.  I  find  it  painful  even  to  think  of 
mixing  again  with  the  gay  multitude.  I  believe 
the  melancholy  reflections  by  which  I  am  op 
pressed  will  be  more  effectually,  if  not  more  easily, 
surmounted  by  tarrying  where  they  are  rendered 
familiar,  than  by  going  from  them  awhile  and  then 
returning. 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.    23-r> 

Julia  will  therefore  go  without  me.  I  envy  her 
no  enjoyment  there,  except  your  company. 

The  substitution  of  friendship,  in  the  place  of 
love,  for  Major  Sanford,  I  find  productive  of  agree 
able  sensations.  With  him,  he  assures  me,  it  is  a 
far  more  calm  and  rational  pleasure.  He  treats 
me  with  the  affection  and  tenderness  of  a  brother, 
arid  his  wife,  who  exceeds  him  in  professions  of 
regard,  with  all  the  consoling  softness  and  atten 
tion  of  a  sister.  Indeed,  their  politeness  has  greatly 
contributed  to  revive  the  cheerfulness  of  my  natu 
ral  disposition.  I  believe  the  major's  former  par 
tiality  to  me  as  a  lover  is  entirely  obliterated  ;  and 
for  my  part,  I  feel  as  little  restraint  in  his  company 
and  his  lady's  as  in  that  of  any  other  in  the  neigh 
borhood. 

I  very  much  regret  the  departure  of  Julia,  and 
hope  you  will  permit  her  to  return  to  me  again  as 
soon  as  possible.  She  is  a  valuable  friend.  Her 
mind  is  well  cultivated,  and  she  has  treasured  up 
a  fund  of  knowledge  and  information  which  ren 
ders  her  company  both  agreeable  and  useful  in 
every  situation  of  life.  We  lately  spent  the  after 
noon  and  evening  at  Mr.  Smith's.  They  had  a 
considerable  number  of  visitants,  and  among  the 
rest  Major  Sanford.  His  wife  was  expected,  but 
did  not  come,  being  indisposed. 


236  THE    COQUKTTE;    OR,    THE 

I  believe,  my  friend,  yon  must  excuse  me  if  my 
letters  are  shorter  than  formerly.  Writing  is  not 
so  agreeable  to  me  as  it  used  to  be.  1  love  my 
friends  as  well  as  ever,  but  I  think  they  must  be 
weary  of  the  gloom  and  dulness  which  pervade 
rny  present  correspondence.  When  my  pen  shall 
have  regained  its  original  fluency  and  alertness,  I 
will  resume  and  prolong  the  pleasing  task. 

I  am,  my  dear  Lucy,  yours  most  affectionately, 

ELIZA  WIIAKTON. 


LETTER    LX. 

To   THE    SAME. 

HARTFORD. 

Dear  madam  :  Agreeably  to  your  desire  every 
art  has  been  tried,  every  allurement  held  out,  every 
argument  used,  and  every  plan  adopted,  which 
Mrs.  Wharton  and  I  could  devise  to  induce  Eliza 
to  accompany  me  to  Boston ;  but  all  in  vain. 
Sometimes  she  has  been  almost  persuaded  to  a 
compliance  with  our  united  request,  but  soon  has 
resolutely  determined  against  it.  I  have  observed 
her  sentiments  to  be  suddenly  changed  after  being 
in  company  with  Major  Sanford.  This  alarms  us 
exceedingly.  Indeed,  the  major  seems  to  have  in- 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA    WHARTON.   237 

sinuatecl  himself  into  her  good  opinion  more  than 
ever.  She  is  flattered  into  the  belief  that  his  at 
tention  to  her  is  purely  the  result  of  friendship  and 
benevolence. 

I  have  not  so  favorable  an  opinion  of  the  man 
as  to  suppose  him  capable  of  either.  He  has  be 
come  very  familiar  here.  He  calls  in  almost  every 
day.  Sometimes  he  but  just  inquires  after  our 
health,  and  sometimes  makes  long  visits.  The 
latter  is  his  invariable  practice  when  he  finds  Eliza 
alone.  Mrs.  Wharton  always  avoids  seeing  him 
if  she  can.  She  dreads,  she  says,  his  approaching 
the  house. 

I  entered  the  parlor  the  other  day,  somewhat 
suddenly,  and  found  him  sitting  very  near  Eliza, 
in  a  low  conversation.  They  both  rose  in  apparent 
confusion,  and  he  soon  retired. 

When  he  was  gone,  "  I  suspect,"  said  I,  "  that 
the  major  was  whispering  a  tale  of  love,  Eliza." 
"  Do  you  imagine,"  said  she,  "  that  I  would  listen 
to  such  a  theme  from  a  married  man  ?"  "I  hope 
not,"  said  I,  "  but  his  conduct  towards  you  indi 
cates  a  revival  of  his  former  sentiments,  at  least." 
"  I  was  not  aware  of  that,"  said  she.  "  As  yet  1 
have  observed  nothing  in  his  behavior  to  me  in 
consistent  with  the  purest  friendship." 

We  drank   tea   not  long  since  at  Mr.   Smith's. 


THE   COQUETTE ;    OR,    THE 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Major  Sanford  made  his  ap 
pearance,  to  apologize,  as  he  said,  for  Mrs.  Sanford, 
who  was  indisposed,  and  could  not  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  the  visit  she  had  contemplated.  He 
was  very  gay  the  whole  evening ;  and  when  the 
company  separated,  he  was  the  first  to  present  his 
arm  to  Eliza,  who  accepted  it  without  hesitation. 
A  Mr.  Newhall  attended  me,  and  we  endeavored 
to  keep  them  company ;  but  they  evidently  chose 
to  walk  by  themselves.  Mr.  Newhall  observed, 
that  if  Major  Sanford  were  not  married  he  should 
suspect  he  still  intended  a  union  with  Miss  Whar- 
ton.  I  replied,  that  their  former  intercourse,  having 
terminated  in  friendship,  rendered  them  more  fa 
miliar  with  each  other  than  with  the  generality  of 
their  acquaintance. 

When  we  reached  the  house,  Mr.  Newhall  chose 
not  to  go  in,  and  took  his  leave.  I  waited  at  the 
door  for  Eliza  and  Major  Sanford.  At  some  little 
distance,  I  saw  him  press  her  hand  to  his  lips.  It 
vexed  me  exceedingly ;  and  no  sooner  had  they 
come  up,  than  I  sullenly  bade  them  good  night, 
and  walked  directly  in.  Eliza  soon  followed  me. 
I  sat  down  by  the  fire  in  a  thoughtful  posture. 
She  did  the  same.  In  this  situation  we  both  re 
mained  for  some  time  without  speaking  a  word. 
At  length  she  said,  "  You  seem  not  to  have  en- 


LIFK    AXI)    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WIIARTON.   239 

joyed  yonr  walk,  Miss  Granby :  did  you  not  like 
your  gallant  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said  J,  "  very  well ;  but  I 
am  mortified  that  you  were  not  Better  provided 
for."  "  1  make  no  complaint,"  rejoined  she;  "I 
was  very  well  entertained."  "  That  is  what  dis 
pleases  me,"  said  T ;  "  T  mean  your  visible  fond 
ness  for  the  society  of  sueh  a  man.  Were  you 
averse  to  it,  as  you  ought  to  be,  there  would  be  no 
danger.  But  he  has  an  alluring  tongue  and  a 
treacherous  heart.  How  can  you  be  pleased  and 
entertained  by  his  conversation  ?  To  me  it  ap 
pears  totally  repugnant  to  that  refinement  and 
delicacy  for  which  you  have  always  been  esteemed. 
"  His  assiduity  and  obtrusion  ought  to  alarm 
you.  You  well  know  what  his  character  has  been. 
Marriage  has  not  changed  his  disposition.  It  is 
only  a  cloak  which  conceals  it.  Trust  him  not, 
then,  my  dear  Eliza ;  if  you  do,  depend  upon  it 
you  will  find  his  professions  of  friendship  to  be 
mere  hypocrisy  and  deceit.  I  fear  that  he  is  act 
ing  over  again  the  same  unworthy  arts  which  for 
merly  misled  you.  Beware  of  his  wiles.  Your 
friends  are  anxious  for  you.  They  tremble  at 
your  professed  regard  and  apparent  intimacy  with 
that  unprincipled  man."  "  My  friends,"  said  she, 
"  are  very  jealous  of  me  lately.  I  know  not  how 
T  have  forfeited  their  confidence,  or  incurred  their 


240  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

suspicion."  "  By  encouraging  that  attention,"  I 
warmly  replied,  "  and  receiving  those  caresses,  from 
a  married  man  which  are  due  from  him  to  none 
but  his  wife.  He  is  a  villain  if  he  deceived  her  into 
marriage  by  insincere  professions  of  love.  If  he 
had  then  an  affection  for  her,  and  has  already  dis 
carded  it,  he  is  equally  guilty.  Can  you  expect 
sincerity  from  the  man  who  withholds  it  from  an 
amiable  and  deserving  wife  ?  No,  Eliza  ;  it  is  not 
love  which  induces  him  to  entertain  you  with  the 
subject.  It  is  a  baser  passion ;  and  if  you  disdain 
not  his  artifice,  if  you  listen  to  his  flattery,  you  will, 
I  fear,  fall  a  victim  to  his  evil  machinations.  If 
he  conducted  like  a  man  of  honor,  he  would  merit 
your  esteem ;  but  his  behavior  is  quite  the  reverse  : 
yet,  vile  as  he  is,  he  would  not  dare  to  lisp  his  in 
solent  hopes  of  your  regard  if  you  punished  his 
presumption  with  the  indignation  it  deserves;  if 
you  spurned  from  your  presence  the  ungrateful 
wretch  who  would  requite  your  condescension  by 
triumphing  in  your  ruin." 

She  now  burst  into  tears,  and  begged  me  to 
drop  the  subject.  Her  mind,  she  said,  was  racked 
by  her  own  reflections.  She  could  bear  but  little. 
Kindness  deceived,  and  censure  distressed  her. 

I  assured  her  of  my  good  intentions ;  that,  as  I 
saw  her  danger,  I  thought  it  a  duty  of  the  friend- 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOJT.   241 

ship  and  affection  I  bore  her  solemnly  to  warn  her 
against  it  before  we  parted.  We  talked  over  the 
matter  more  calmly,  till  she  professed  herself  re 
solved  in  future  to  avoid  his  company,  and  reject 
his  insinuations. 

The  next  day,  as  I  walked  out,  I  met  Major 
Sanford.  He  accosted  me  very  civilly.  I  barely 
bade  him  good  morning,  and  passed  on. 

I  made  it  in  my  way  to  call  at  his  house,  and  bid 
Mrs.  Sanford  adieu  ;  not  expecting  another  oppor 
tunity  equally  favorable.  When  I  entered  the 
parlor,  she  was  playing  a  melancholy  air  on  the 
harpsichord.  She  rose,  and  gave  me  a  polite  and 
graceful  reception.  I  told  her,  as  I  was  soon  to 
leave  the  town,  I  called  to  take  my  leave  of  her  —  a 
compliment  which  her  attention  to  me  required. 
"  Are  you  going  to  leave  us  then,  Miss  Granby  ?  " 
said  she.  "  I  shall  regret  your  departure  exceedingly. 
I  have  so  few  friends  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
that  it  will  give  me  sensible  pain  to  part  with  one 
I  so  highly  value." 

I  told  her,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  I 
expected  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her  yesterday  at 
Mr.  Smith's,  and  was  very  sorry  for  the  indispo 
sition  which  prevented  her  favoring  us  with  her 
company.  "  Indeed,"  said  she,  "  I  did  not  know  I 

was    expected    there.     Were    you   there,   pray  ? " 
15 


242  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

"  Yes,"  said  I ;  "  and  Major  Sanford  excused  your 
not  coming,  on  the  account  I  have  mentioned." 
"  Well,"  said  she,  "  this  is  the  first  word  that  I  ever 
heard  about  it ;  he  told  me  that  business  led  him 
abroad.  Did  he  gallant  any  lady  ?"  "  O,"  said  I, 
"  he  was  with  us  all  together.  We  had  no  particu 
lar  gallants." 

Seeing  her  curiosity  excited,  I  heartily  repented 
saying  any  thing  of  the  matter,  and  waived  the 
subject.  Little  did  I  suspect  him  to  have  been 
guilty  of  so  base  an  artifice.  It  was  evidently  con 
trived  to  facilitate  an  interview  with  Eliza. 

When  I  returned,  I  related  this  affair  to  Mrs. 
Wharton  and  her  daughter.  The  old  lady  and  I 
expatiated  largely  on  the  vileness  of  this  conduct, 
and  endeavored  to  expose  it  to  Eliza's  view  in  its 
true  colors.  She  pretended  not  to  justify  it ;  yet 
she  looked  as  if  she  wished  it  in  her  power. 

I  am  now  preparing  for  my  journey  to  Boston, 
which  I  must,  however,  defer  another  week  for  the 
sake  of  a  more  agreeable  passage  in  the  stage.  I 
regret  leaving  Eliza.  I  tremble  at  her  danger. 
She  has  not  the  resolution  to  resist  temptation 
which  she  once  possessed.  Her  mind  is  surpris 
ingly  weakened.  She  appears  sensible  of  this, 
yet  adds  to  it  by  yielding  to  her  own  imbecility. 
You  will  receive  a  letter  from  her  with  this,  though 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   243 

I  had  much  difficulty  to  persuade  her  to  write. 
She  has  unfortunately  become  very  averse  to  this, 
her  once  favorite  amusement. 

As  I  shall  soon  have  the  pleasure  of  conversing 
with  you  personally,  I  conclude  without  any  other 
addition  to  this  scrawl  than  the  name  of  your 


obliged 


JULIA  GRANBY. 


LETTER    LXI. 

To*  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

My  dear  friend  :  I  have  received  your  letters, 
and  must  own  to  you  that  the  perusal  of  them 
gave  me  pain.  Pardon  my  suspicions,  Eliza  ;  they 
are  excited  by  real  friendship.  Julia,  you  say,  ap 
proves  not  Major  Sanford's  particular  attention  to 
you.  Neither  do  I.  If  you  recollect  and  examine 
his  conversation  in  his  conciliatory  visit,  you  will 
find  it  replete  with  sentiments  for  the  avowal  of 
which  he  ought  to  be  banished  from  all  virtuous 
society. 

Does  he  not  insidiously  declare  that  you  are  the 
only  pbject  of  his  affections  ;  that  his  union  with 
another  was  formed  from  interested  views  ;  and, 


244  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

though  that  other  is  acknowledged  to  be  amiable 
and  excellent,  still  he  has  not  a  heart  to  bestow, 
and  expects  not  happiness  with  her  ?  Does  this 
discover  even  the  appearance  of  amendment?  Has 
he  not,  by  false  pretensions,  misled  a  virtuous  wo 
man,  and  induced  her  to  form  a  connection  with 
him  ?  She  was  a  stranger  to  his  manner  of  life, 
and  doubtless  allured,  as  you  have  been,  by  flat 
tery,  deceit,  and  external  appearance,  to  trust  his 
honor,  little  thinking  him  wholly  devoid  of  that 
sacred  tie.  What  is  the  reward  of  her  confidence  ? 
Insensibility  to  her  charms,  neglect  of  her  person, 
and  professed  attachment  to  another ! 

Is  he  a  man,  my  dear  Eliza,  whose  friendship 
you  wish  to  cultivate  ?  Can  that  heavenly  pas 
sion  reside  in  a  breast  which  is  the  seat  of  treach 
ery,  duplicity,  and  ingratitude  ?  You  are  too 
sensible  of  its  purity  and  worth  to  suppose  it 
possible.  The  confessions  of  his  own  mouth  con 
demn  him.  They  convince  me  that  he  is  still  the 
abandoned  libertine,  and  that  marriage  is  but  the 
cloak  of  his  intrigues.  His  officious  attentions  to 
you  are  alarming  to  your  friends.  Your  own  mind 
weakened,  and  peculiarly  susceptible  of  tender  im 
pressions,  beware  how  you  receive  them  from  him. 
Listen  not  a  moment  to  his  flattering  professions  ; 
it  is  an  insult  upon  your  understanding  for  him  to 


LIFE    AXD   LETTERS    OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   245 

offer  them  ;  it  is  derogatory  to  virtue  for  you  to 
hear  them. 

Slight  not  the  opinion  of  the  world.  We  are 
dependent  beings  ;  and  while  the  smallest  traces 
of  virtuous  sensibility  remain,  we  must  feel  the 
force  of  that  dependence  in  a  greater  or  less  de 
gree.  No  female,  whose  mind  is  uncorrupted,  can 
bo  indifferent  to  reputation.  It  is  an  inestimable 
jewel,  the  loss  of  which  can  never  be  repaired. 
While  retained,  it  affords  conscious  peace  to  our 
own  minds,  and  insures  the  esteem  and  respect  of 
all  around  us. 

Blessed  with  the  company  of  so  disinterested 
and  faithful  a  friend  as  Julia  Granby,  some  def 
erence  is  certainly  due  to  her  opinion  and  advice. 
To  an  enlarged  understanding,  a  cultivated  taste, 
and  an  extensive  knowledge  of  the  world,  she 
unites  the  most  liberal  sentiments  with  a  benev 
olence  and  candor  of  disposition,  which  render  her 
equally  deserving  of  your  confidence  and  affection. 

I  cannot  relinquish  my  claim  to  a  visit  from  you 
this  winter.  Marriage  has  not  alienated  nor  weak 
ened  my  regard  for  my  friends.  Come,  then,  to  your 
faithful  Lucy.  Have  you  sorrows  ?  I  will  soothe 
and  alleviate  them.  Have  you  cares?  I  will  dispel 
them.  Have  you  pleasures  ?  I  will  heighten  them. 
Come,  then,  let  me  fold  you  to  my  expecting  heart. 


246  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

My  happiness  will  be  partly  suspended  till  your 
society  renders  it  complete.     Adieu. 

LUCY    SUMNER. 


LETTER    LXII. 

To  Miss  JULIA  GRANBY. 

HARTFORD. 

Dear  Julia :  I  hope  Mrs.  Surnner  and  you  will 
excuse  my  writing  but  one  letter  in  answer  to  the 
number  I  have  received  from  you  both.  Writing 
is  an  employment  which  suits  me  not  at  present. 
It  was  pleasing  to  me  formerly,  and  therefore,  by 
recalling  the  idea  of  circumstances  and  events 
which  frequently  occupied  my  pen  in  happier  days, 
it  now  gives  me  pain.  Yet  I  have  just  written  a 
long  consolatory  letter  to  Mrs.  Richman.  She  has 
buried  her  babe  —  her  little  Harriet,  of  whom  she 
was  dotingly  fond. 

It  was  a  custom  with  some  of  the  ancients,  we 
are  told,  to  weep  at  the  birth  of  their  children. 
Often  should  we  be  impelled  to  a  compliance 
with  this  custom,  could  we  foresee  the  future  inci 
dents  of  their  lives.  I  think,  at  least,  that  the  un 
certainty  of  their  conduct  and  condition  in  more 
advanced  age  may  reconcile  us  to  their  removal  to 


LIFE   AXD    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.   247 

a  happier  state  before  they  are  capable  of  tasting 
the  bitterness  of  woe. 

"  Happy  the  babe,  who,  privileged  by  fate 
To  shorter  labors  and  a  lighter  weight, 
Received  but  yesterday  the  gift  of  breath, 
Ordered  to-morrow  to  return  to  death." 

Our  domestic  affairs  are  much  as  when  you  left 
us.  Nothing  remarkable  has  occurred  in  the  neigh 
borhood  worth  communicating.  The  company  and 
amusements  of  the  town  are  as  usual,  I  suppose. 
I  frequent  neither  of  them.  Having  incurred  so 
much  censure  by  the  indulgence  of  a  gay  dispo 
sition,  I  am  now  trying  what  a  recluse  and  solitary 
mode  of  life  will  produce.  You  will  call  me  splen 
etic.  I  own  it.  I  am  pleased  with  nobody ;  still 
less  with  myself.  I  look  around  for  happiness,  and 
find  it  not.  The  world  is  to  me  a  desert.  If  I 
indulge  myself  in  temporary  enjoyment,  the  con 
sciousness  or  apprehension  of  doing  amiss  destroys 
my  peace  of  mind.  And  when  I  have  recourse  to 
books,  if  I  read  those  of  serious  descriptions,  they 
remind  me  of  an  awful  futurity,  for  which  I  am 
unprepared ;  if  history,  it  discloses  facts  in  which 
I  have  no  interest ;  if  novels,  they  exhibit  scenes 
of  pleasure  which  I  have  no  prospect  of  realizing. 

My  mamma  is  solicitously  attentive  to  my  hap 
piness  ;  and  though  she  fails  of  promoting  it,  yet 


248  THE  COQUETTE;  or..  THW 

I  endeavor  to  save  her  the  pangs  of  disappointment 
by  appearing  what  she  wishes. 

I  anticipate,  and  yet  I  dread,  your  return  ;  a  par 
adox  this,  which  time  alone  can  solve. 

Continue  writing  to  me,  and  entreat  Mrs.  Sum- 
ner,  in  my  name,  to  do  likewise.  Your  benevo 
lence  must  be  your  reward. 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


LETTER    LXIII. 

To  Miss  ELIZA  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

A  paradox,  indeed,  is  the  greater  part  of  your 
letter  to  us,  my  dear  Eliza.  We  had  fondly  flat 
tered  ourselves  that  the  melancholy  of  your  mind 
was  exterminated.  I  hope  no  new  cause  has  re 
vived  it.  Little  did  I  intend,  when  I  left  you,  to 
have  been  absent  so  long ;  but  Mrs.  Sumner's  dis 
appointment,  in  her  plan  of  spending  the  summer 
at  Hartford,  induced  me,  in  compliance  with  her 
request,  to  prolong  my  residence  here.  But  for 
your  sake,  she  now  consents  to  my  leaving  her,  in 
hopes  I  may  be  so  happy  as  to  contribute  to  your 
amusement. 

I  am  both  pleased  and  instructed  by  the  conduct 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WI1ARTOX.    249 

of  this  amiable  woman.  As  I  always  endeavored 
to  imitate  her  discreet  and  modest  behavior  in  a 
single  state,  so  likewise  shall  I  take  her  for  a  pat 
tern  should  I  ever  enter  a  married  life.  She  is 
most  happily  united.  Mr.  Sumner,  to  all  the  graces 
and  accomplishments  of  the  gentleman,  adds  the 
still  more  important  and  essential  properties  of  vir 
tue,  integrity,  and  honor.  I  was  once  present  when 
a  person  was  recommended  to  her  for  a  husband. 
She  objected  that  he  was  a  rake.  "  True,"  said 
the  other,  "  he  has  been,  but  he  has  reformed." 
"  That  will  never  do  for  me,"  rejoined  she  ;  "  I 
wish  my  future  companion  to  need  no  reforma 
tion" —  a  sentiment  worthy  the  attention  of  our 
whole  sex  ;  the  general  adoption  of  which,  I  am 
persuaded,  would  have  a  happy  influence  upon  the 
manners  of  the  other. 

I  hope  neither  you  nor  I,  Eliza,  shall  ever  be 
tried  by  a  man  of  debauched  principles.  Such 
characters  I  conceive  to  be  totally  unfit  for  the  so 
ciety  of  women  who  have  any  claim  to  virtue  and 
delicacy. 

I  intend  to  be  with  you  in  about  a  month.  If 
agreeable  to  you,  we  will  visit  and  spend  a  few 

weeks  with   the  afflicted    Mrs.   Richman.      I  sin- 

• 

cerely  sympathize  with  her  under  her  bereavement. 
I  know  her  fondness  for  you  will  render  your 


250  THE   COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

company  very  consoling  to  her;  and  I  flatter  my 
self  that  I  should  not  be  an  unwelcome  guest. 

Make  my  respects  to  your  mamma,  and  believe 
me  ever  yours, 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LETTER    LXIV. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HABTFOBD. 

Dear  madam :  I  have  arrived  in  safety  to  the 
mansion  of  our  once  happy  and  social  friends. 
But  I  cannot  describe  to  you  how  changed,  how 
greatly  changed  this  amiable  family  appears  since 
I  left  it.  Mrs.  Wharton  met  me  at  the  door,  and, 
tenderly  embracing,  bade  me  a  cordial  welcome. 
"  You  are  come,  Julia,"  said  she,  "  I  hope,  to  re 
vive  and  comfort  us.  We  have  been  very  solitary 
during  your  absence."  "  I  am  happy,  madam," 
said  I,  "  to  return  ;  and  my  endeavors  to  restore 
cheerfulness  and  content  shall  not  be  wanting- 
But  where  is  Eliza?"  By  this  time  we  had 
reached  the  back  pavlor,  whither  Mrs.  Wharton  led 
me  ;  and,  the  door  being  open,  I  saw  Eliza  re 
clined  on  a  settee,  in  a  very  thoughtful  posture. 
When  I  advanced  to  meet  her,  she  never  moved, 


LIFE   AKD    LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   251 

but  sat,  "  like  Patience  on  a  monument,  smiling  at 
Grief." 

I  stopped  involuntarily,  and  involuntarily  raising 
my  eyes  to  heaven,  exclaimed,  "  Is  that  Eliza 
Wharton  ?"  She  burst  into  tears,  and  attempted 
to  rise,  but  sank  again  into  her  seat.  Seeing  her 
thus  affected,  I  sat  down  by  her,  and,  throwing  my 
arm  about  her  neck,  "  Why  these  tears  ?  "  said  I. 
"  Why  this  distress,  my  dear  friend  ?  Let  not  the 
return  of  your  Julia  give  you  pain  ;  she  comes  to 
soothe  you  with  the  consolations  of  friendship." 
"  It  is  not  pain,"  said  she,  clasping  me  to  her 
breast ;  "  it  is  pleasure  too  exquisite  for  my  weak 
nerves  to  bear.  See  you  not,  Julia,  how  I  am. 
altered?  Should  you  have  known  me  for  the 
sprightly  girl  who  was  always  welcome  at  the 
haunts  •  of  hilarity  and  mirth?"  "Indeed,"  said 
I,  "  you  appear  indisposed ;  but  I  will  be  your 
physician.  Company  and  change  of  air  will,  I 
doubt  not,  restore  you."  "  Will  these  cure  dis 
orders  of  the  mind,  Julia  ?  "  "  They  will  have  a 
powerful  tendency  to  remove  them,  if  rightly  ap- 
ulied ;  and  I  profess  considerable  skill  in  that  art 
Come,"  continued  I,  "we  will  try  these  medicines 
in  the  morning.  Let  us  rise  early,  and  step  into 
the  chaise,  and,  after  riding  a  few  miles,  call  and 
breakfast  with  Mrs.  Freeman.  I  have  some  com- 


252  THE    COQUETTE;    OK,    THE 

missions  from  her  daughter.  We  shall  be  agree 
ably  entertained  there,  you  know." 

Being  summoned  to  supper,  I  took  her  by  the 
hand,  and  we  walked  into  another  room,  where 
we  found  her  brother  and  his  wife,  with  her  mam 
ma,  waiting  for  us.  We  were  all  very  chatty ; 
even  Eliza  resumed,  in  a  degree,  her  former  socia 
bility.  A  settled  gloom,  notwithstanding,  brooded 
on  her  countenance  ;  and  a  deep  sigh  often  escaped 
her  in  spite  of  her  evident  endeavors  to  suppress  it. 
She  went  to  bed  before  us,  when  her  mamma  in 
formed  me  that  her  health  had  been  declining  for 
some  months  ;  that  she  never  complained,  but  stu 
diously  concealed  every  symptom  of  indisposition. 
Whether  it  were  any  real  disorder  of  body,  or 
whether  it  arose  from  her  depression  of  spirits,  she 
could  not  tell,  but  supposed  they  operated  togeth 
er,  and  mutually  heightened  each  other. 

I  inquired  after  Major  Sanford ;  whether  he  and 
Eliza  had  associated  together  during  my  absence. 
Sometimes,  she  said,  they  seemed  on  good  terms, 
arid  he  frequently  called  to  see  her ;  at  others 
they  had  very  little,  if  any,  correspondence  at  all. 
She  told  me  that  Eliza  never  went  abroad,  and 
wras  very  loath  to  see  company  at  home;  that  her 
chief  amusement  consisted  in  solitary  walks  ;  that 
the  dreadful  idea  of  her  meeting  Major  Sanford 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   253 

in  these  walks  had  now  and  then  intruded  upon 
her  imagination;  that  she  had  not  the  least  evi 
dence  of  the  fact,  however,  and,  indeed,  was 
afraid  to  make  any  inquiries  into  the  matter,  lest 
her  own  suspicions  should  be  discovered  ;  that  the 
major's  character  was  worse  than  ever;  that  he 
was  much  abroad,  and  frequently  entertained  large 
parties  of  worthless  bacchanalians  at  his  house ; 
that  common  report  said  he  treated  his  wife  with 
indifference,  neglect,  and  ill  nature ;  with  many 
other  circumstances  which  it  is  not  material  to 
relate. 

Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  for  the  present.  When 
occasion  requires,  you  shall  hear  again  from  your 
affectionate 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LETTER    LXV. 

To  MR.   CHARLES  DEICIITON. 

HARTFORD. 

Good  news,  Charles,  good  news !  I  have  ar 
rived  to  the  utmost  bounds  of  my  wishes  —  the  full 
possession  of  my  adorable  Eliza.  I  have  heard  a 
quotation  from  a  certain  book,  but  what  book  it 
was  I  have  forgotten,  if  1  ever  knew.  No  matter 


254  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OR  THE 

for  that ;  the  quotation  is,  that  "  stolen  waters  are 
sweet,  and  bread  eaten  in  secret  is  pleasant."  If  it 
has  reference  to  the  pleasures  which  I  have  enjoyed 
with  Eliza,  I  like  it  hugely,  as  Tristram  Shandy's 
father  said  of  Yorick's  sermon  ;  and  I  think  it 
fully  verified. 

I  had  a  long  and  tedious  siege.  Every  method 
which  lov,e  could  suggest,  or  art  invent,  was  adopt 
ed.  I  was  sometimes  ready  to  despair,  under  an 
idea  that  her  resolution  was  unconquerable,  her 
virtue  impregnable.  Indeed,  I  should  have  given 
over  the  pursuit  long  ago,  but  for  the  hopes  of  suc 
cess  I  entertained  from  her  parleying  with  me,  and, 
in  reliance  upon  her  own  strength,  endeavoring  to 
combat  and  counteract  my  designs.  Whenever 
this  has  been  the  case,  Charles,  I  have  never  yet 
been  defeated  in  my  plan.  If  a  lady  will  consent  to 
enter  the  lists  against  the  antagonist  of  her  honor, 
she  may  be  sure  of  losing  the  prize.  Besides,  were 
her  delicacy  genuine,  she  would  banish  the  man  at 
once  who  presumed  to  doubt,  which  he  certainly 
does  who  attempts  to  vanquish  it.  But  far  be  it 
from  me  to  criticize  the  pretensions  of  the  sex. 
If  I  gain  the  rich  reward  of  my  dissimulation  and 
gallantry,  that,  you  know,  is  all  I  want. 

To  return,  then,  to  the  point.  An  unlucky,  but 
not  a  miraculous  accident  has  taken  place  which 


LIFE    AXD    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.   255 

must  soon  expose  our  amour.  What  can  be  done  ? 
At  the  first  discovery,  absolute  distraction  seized 
the  soul  of  Eliza,  which  has  since  terminated  in  a 
fixed  melancholy.  Her  health,  too,  is  much  im 
paired.  She  thinks  herself  rapidly  declining,  and 
I  tremble  when  I  see  her  emaciated  form. 

My  wife  has  been  reduced  very  low  of  late. 
She  brought  me  a  boy  a  few  weeks  past,  a  dead 
one  though. 

These  circumstances  give  me  neither  pain  nor 
pleasure.  I  am  too  much  engrossed  by  my  divini 
ty  to  take  an  interest  in  any  thing  else.  True,  I 
have  lately  suffered  myself  to  be  somewhat  en 
gaged  here  and  there  by  a  few  jovial  lads  who 
assist  me  in  dispelling  the  anxious  thoughts  which 
my  perplexed  situation  excites.  I  must,  however, 
seek  some  means  to  relieve  Eliza's  distress.  My 
finances  are  low ;  but  the  last  fraction  shall  be  ex 
pended  in  her  service,  if  she  need  it. 

Julia  Granby  is  expected  at  Mrs.  Wharton's 
every  hour.  I  fear  that  her  inquisitorial  eye  will 
soon  detect  our  intrigue  and  obstruct  its  continua 
tion.  Now,  there's  a  girl,  Charles,  I  should  never 
attempt  to  seduce  ;  yet  she  is  a  most  alluring  ob 
ject,  I  assure  you.  But  the  dignity  of  her  manners 
forbids  all  assaults  upon  her  virtue.  Why,  the 
very  expression  of  her  eye  blasts  in  the  bud  every 


256  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

thought  derogatory  to  her  honor,  and  tells  you 
plainly  that  the  first  insinuation  of  the  kind  would 
be  punished  with  eternal  banishment  and  displeas 
ure.  Of  her  there  is  no  danger.  But  I  can  write 
no  more,  except  that  I  am,  &c., 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LETTER    LXVI. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HARTFORD. 

0  my  friend,  I  have   a  tale  to  unfold  —  a  tale 
which  will  rend  every  nerve  of  sympathizing  pity, 
which  will  rack  the  breast  of  sensibility,  and  un 
speakably  distress  your  benevolent  heart.     Eliza  — 
O,  the  ruined,  lost  Eliza  ! 

1  want  words  to  express  the  emotions  of  indig 
nation  and  grief  which  oppress  me.     But  I  will 
endeavor  to  compose  myself,  and  relate  the  circum 
stances  as  they  came  to  my  knowledge. 

After  my  last  letter  Eliza  remained  much  in  the 
same  gloomy  situation  as  I  found  her.  She  re 
fused  to  go,  agreeably  to  her  promise,  to  visit  your 
mamma,  and,  under  one  pretext  or  another,  has 
constantly  declined  accompanying  me  any  where 
else  since  my  arrival. 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   257 

Till  last  Thursday  night  she  slept  in  the  same 
bed  with  me,  when  she  excused  herself  by  saying 
she  was  restless,  and  should  disturb  my  repose.  I 
yielded  to  her  humor  of  taking  a  different  apart 
ment,  little  suspecting  the  real  cause.  She  fre 
quently  walked  out,  and  though  I  sometimes  fol 
lowed,  I  very  seldom  found  her.  Two  or  three 
times,  when  I  happened  to  be  awake,  I  heard  her 
go  down  stairs ;  and,  on  inquiry  in  the  morning,  she 
told  me  that  she  was  very  thirs*ty,  and  went  down 
for  water.  I  observed  a  degree  of  hesitancy  in  her 
answers  for  which  I  could  not  account.  But  last 
night  the  dreadful  mystery  was  developed.  A  lit 
tle  before  day,  I  heard  the  front  door  open  with 
great  caution.  I  sprang  from  my  bed,  and,  running 
to  the  window,  saw  by  the  light  of  the  moon  a 
man  going  from  the  house.  Soon  after,  I  perceived 
a  footstep  upon  the  stairs,  which  carefully  ap 
proached,  and  entered  Eliza's  chamber. 

Judge  of  my  astonishment,  my  surprise,  my 
feelings  upon  this  occasion.  I  doubted  not  but 
Major  Sanford  was  the  person  I  had  seen ;  and  the 
discovery  of  Eliza's  guilt  in  this  infamous  intrigue 
almost  deprived  me  of  thought  and  recollection. 
My  blood  thrilled  with  horror  at  this  sacrifice  of  vir 
tue.  After  a  while  I  recovered  myself,  and  put  on 

my  clothes.     But  what  to  do  I  knew  not  —  whether 
16 


258  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

to  go  directly  to  her  chamber,  and  let  her  know  that 
she  was  detected,  or  to  wait  another  opportunity. 

I  resolved  on  the  first.  The  day  had  now 
dawned.  I  tapped  at  her  door,  and  she  bade  me 
come  in.  She  was  sitting  in  an  easy  chair  by  the 
side  of  her  bed.  As  I  entered  she  withdrew  her 
handkerchief  from  her  face,  and,  looking  earnestly 
at  me,  said,  "  What  procures  me  the  favor  of  a 
visit  at  this  early  hour,  Miss  Granby  ?  "  "I  was 
disturbed,"  said  I,  "  and  wished  not  to  return  to 
my  bed.  But  what  breaks  your  rest,  and  calls 
you  up  so  unseasonably,  Eliza?  "  "  Remorse  and 
despair,"  answered  she,  weeping.  "  After  what  I 
have  witnessed,  this  morning,"  rejoined  I,  "  I  can 
not  wonder  at  it.  Was  it  not  Major  Sanford 
whom  I  saw  go  from  the  house  some  time  ago  ?  " 
She  was  silent,  but  tears  flowed  abundantly.  "  It 
is  too  late,"  continued  I,  "  to  deny  or  evade.  An 
swer  my  question  sincerely  ;  for,  believe  me,  Eliza, 
it  is  not  malice,  but  concern  for  you,  which  prompts 
it."  "  I  will  answer  you,  Julia,"  said  she.  "  You 
have  discovered  a  secret  which  harrows  up  my 
very  soul  —  a  secret  which  I  wished  you  to  know, 
but  could  not  exert  resolution  to  reveal.  Yes,  it 
was  Major  Sanford  —  the  man  who  has  robbed 
me  of  my  peace,  who  has  triumphed  in  my  de 
struction,  and  who  will  cause  my  sun  to  set  at 
noon." 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOX.   259 

"  I  shudder,"  said  I, "  at  your  confession  !  Wretch 
ed,  deluded  girl !  Is  this  a  return  for  your  parent's 
love  and  assiduous  care  ;  for  your  friends'  solici 
tude  and  premonitory  advice  ?  You  are  ruined, 
you  say !  You  have  sacrificed  your  virtue  to  an 
abandoned,  despicable  profligate  !  And  you  live 
to  acknowledge  and  bear  your  infamy  !  "  "I  do," 
said  she  ;  "  but  not  long  shall  I  support  this  bur 
den.  See  you  not,  Julia,  my  decaying  frame,  my 
faded  cheek,  and  tottering  limbs  ?  Soon  shall  I 
be  insensible  to  censure  and  reproach.  Soon  shall 
I  be  sequestered  in  that  mansion  '  where  the 
wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  where  the  weary 
are  at  rest.'  "  "  Rest !  "  said  I ;  "  can  you  expect 
to  find  rest,  either  in  this  world  or  another,  with 
such  a  weight  of  guilt  on  your  head  ?  "  She  ex 
claimed,  with  great  emotion,  "  Add  not  to  the 
upbraidings  of  a  wounded  spirit.  Have  pity 
upon  me,  O  my  friend,  have  pity  upon  me. 
Could  you  know  what  I  suffer,  you  would  think 
me  sufficiently  punished."  "  I  wish  you  no  other 
punishment,"  said  I,  "than  what  may  effect  your 
repentance  and  reformation.  But  your  mother, 
Eliza !  She  cannot  long  be  ignorant  of  your  fall  ; 
and  I  tremble  to  think  of  her  distress.  It  will 
break  her  widowed  heart.  How  has  she  loved, 
how  has  she  doted  upon  you !  Dreadful  is  the 


260  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THii 

requital  which  you  have  made."  "  My  mother," 
rejoined  she,  "  O,  name  her  not !  The  very  sound 
is  distraction  to  me.  O  my  Julia,  if  your  heart 
be  not  shut  against  mercy  an.d  compassion  towards 
me,  aid  me  through  this  trying  scene.  Let  my 
situation  call  forth  your  pity,  and  induce  you,  un 
deserving  as  I  am,  to  exert  it  in  my  behalf." 

During  this  time,  I  had  walked  the  chamber. 
My  spirits  had  been  raised  above  their  natural  key, 
and  were  exhausted.  I  sat  down,  but  thought  I 
should  have  fainted,  till  a  copious  flood  of  tears 
gave  me  relief.  Eliza  was  extremely  affected. 
The  appearance  of  calamity  which  she  exhibited 
would  have  softened  the  most  obdurate  anger. 
Indeed,  I  feared  some  immediate  and  fatal  effect. 
I  therefore  seated  myself  beside  her  ;  and  assuming 
an  air  of  kindness, "  Compose  yourself,  Eliza,"  said 
I;  "I  repeat  what  I  told  you  before  —  it  is  the 
purest  friendship  which  thus  interests  me  in  your 
concerns.  This,  under  the  direction  of  charity,  in 
duces  me  again  to  offer  you  my  hand.  Yet  you 
have  erred  against  knowledge  and  reason,  against 
warning  and  counsel.  You  have  forfeited  the 
favor  of  your  friends,  and  reluctant  will  be  their 
forgiveness."  "  I  plead  guilty,"  said  she,  "  to  all 
your  charges.  From  the  general  voice  I  expect  no 
clemency.  If  I  can  make  my  peace  with  my 


LIFE,    *ND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   261 

mother,  it  is  all  I  seek  or  wish  on  this  side  the  grave. 
In  your  benevolence  I  confide  for  this.  In  you 
I  hope  to  find  an  intercessor.  By  the  remembrance 
of  our  former  affection  and  happiness,  1  conjure 
you,  refuse  me  not.  At  present,  I  entreat  you  to 
conceal  from  her  this  distressing  tale.  A  short 
reprieve  is  all  I  ask."  "  Why,"  said  I,  "  should 
you  defer  it?  When  the  painful  task  is  over,  you 
may  find  relief  in  her  lenient  kindness."  "  After 
she  knows  my  condition,  I  cannot  see  her,"  resume  ' 
she,  "  till  I  am  assured  of  her  forgiveness.  I  have 
not  strength  to  support  tte  appearance  of  her  an 
ger  and  grief.  I  will  write  to  her  what  I  cannot 
speak.  You  must  bear  the  melancholy  message, 
and  plead  for  me,  that  her  displeasure  may  not  follow 
me  to  the  grave,  whither  I  am  rapidly  hastening." 
"  Be  assured,"  replied  I,  "  that  I  will  keep  your 
secret  as  long  as  prudence  requires.  But  I  must 
leave  you  now ;  your  mamma  will  wonder  at  our 
being  thus  closeted  together.  When  opportunity 
presents,  we  will  converse  further  on  the  subject.  In 
the  mean  time  keep  yourself  as  composed  as  pos 
sible,  if  you  would  avoid  suspicion."  She  raised 
her  clasped  hands,  and  with  a  piteous  look,  threw 
her  handkerchief  over  her  face,  and  reclined  in  her 
chair,  without  speaking  a  word.  I  returned  to  my 
chamber,  and  endeavored  to  dissipate  every  idea 


262  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

which  might  tend  to  disorder  my  countenance,  and 
break  the  silence  I  wished  to  observe  relative  to 
what  had  happened. 

When  I  went  down,  Mrs.  Wharton  desired  me 
to  step  up  and  inform  Eliza  that  breakfast  was 
ready.  She  told  me  she  could  not  yet  compose 
herself  sufficiently  to  see  her  mamma,  and  begged 
me  to  excuse  her  absence  as  I  thought  proper.  I  ac 
cordingly  returned  for  answer  to  Mrs.  Wharton,  that 
Eliza  had  rested  but  indifferently,  and  being  some 
what  indisposed,  would  not  come  down,  but  wished 
me  to  bring  her  a  bowl^ef  chocolate,  when  we  had 
breakfasted.  I  was  obliged  studiously  to  suppress 
even  my  thoughts  concerning  her,  lest  the  emo 
tions  they  excited  might  be  observed.  Mrs.  Whar 
ton  conversed  much  of  her  daughter,  and  expressed 
great  concern  about  her  health  and  state  of  mind. 
Her  return  to  this  state  of  dejection,  after  having 
recovered  her  spirits  and  cheerfulness  in  a  great 
degree,  was  owing,  she  feared,  to  some  cause  un 
known  to  her ;  and  she  entreated  me  to  extract  the 
secret,  if  possible.  I  assured  her  of  my  best  en 
deavors,  and  doubted  not,  I  told  her,  but  I  should 
be  able  in  a  few  days  to  effect  what  she  wished. 

Eliza  came  down  and  walked  in  the  garden  be 
fore  dinner ;  at  which  she  commanded  herself 
much  better  than  I  expected.  She  said  that  a  little 


LIVE    AXD   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   263 

ride  might,  she  imagined,  be  of  service  to  her,  and 
asked  me  if  I  would  accompany  her  a  few  miles 
in  the  afternoon.  Her  mamma  was  much  pleased 
with  the  proposition,  and  the  chaise  was  accord 
ingly  ordered. 

I  observed  to  Eliza,  as  we  rode,  that  with  her 
natural  and  acquired  abilities,  with  her  advantages 
of  education,  with  her  opportunities  of  knowing 
the  world,  and  of  tracing  the  virtues  and  vices  of 
mankind  to  their  origin,  I  was  surprised  at  her  be 
coming  the  prey  of  an  insidious  libertine,  with 
whose  character  she  was  well  acquainted,  and 
whose  principles,  she  was  fully  apprised,  would 
prompt  him  to  deceive  and  betray  her.  "  Your 
surprise  is  very  natural,"  said  she.  "  The  same 
will  doubtless  be  felt  and  expressed  by  every  one 
to  whom  my  sad  story  is  related.  But  the  cause 
may  be  found  in  that  unrestrained  levity  of  dispo 
sition,  that  fondness  for  dissipation  and  coquetry, 
which  alienated  the  affections  of  Mr.  Boyer  from 
me.  This  event  fatally  depressed  and  enfeebled 
my  mind.  I  embraced  with  avidity  the  consoling 
power  of  friendship,  insnaringly  offered  by  my 
seducer  ;  vainly  inferring,  from  his  marriage  with  a 
virtuous  woman,  that  he  had  seen  the  error  of  his 
ways,  and  forsaken  his  licentious  practices,  as  he 
affirmed,  and  I,  fool  that  I  was,  believed  it. 


264  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

"  It  is  needless  for  me  to  rehearse  the  perfidious 
arts  by  which  he  insinuated  himself  into  my  affec 
tions  and  gained  my  confidence.  Suffice  it  to  say, 
he  effected  his  purpose.  But  not  long  did  I  con 
tinue  in  the  delusive  dream  of  sensual  gratification. 
I  soon  awoke  to  a  most  poignant  sense  of  his  base 
ness,  and  of  my  own  crime  and  misery.  I  would 
have  fled  from  him ;  I  would  have  renounced  him 
forever,  and  by  a  life  of  sincere  humility  and  re 
pentance  endeavored  to  make  my  peace  with 
Heaven,  and  to  obliterate,  by  the  rectitude  of  my 
future  conduct,  the  guilt  I  had  incurred ;  but  I 
found  it  too  late.  My  circumstances  called  for 
attention ;  and  I  had  no  one  to  participate  my 
cares,  to  witness  my  distress,  and  to  alleviate  my 
sorrows,  but  him.  I  could  not  therefore  prevail 
on  myself  wholly  to  renounce  his  society.  At 
times  I  have  admitted  his  visits,  always  meeting 
him  in  the  garden,  or  grove  adjoining;  till,  of 
late,  the  weather  and  my  ill  health  induced  me 
to  comply  with  his  solicitations,  and  receive  him 
into  the  parlor. 

"  Not  long,  however,  shall  I  be  subject  to  these 
embarrassments.  Grief  has  undermined  my  con 
stitution.  My  health  has  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  a 
disordered  mind.  But  I  regret  not  its  departure. 
I  have  not  a  single  wish  to  live.  Nothing  which 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   265 

the  world  affords  can  restore  my  former  serenity 
and  happiness. 

"  The  little  innocent  I  bear  will  quickly  disclose 
its  mother's  shame.  God  Almighty  grant  it  may 
not  live  as  a  monument  of  my  guilt,  and  a  par 
taker  of  the  infamy  and  sorrow,  which  is  all  I  have 
to  bequeath  it.  Should  it  be  continued  in  life,  it 
will  never  know  the  tenderness  of  a  parent;  and, 
perhaps,  want  and  disgrace  may  be  its  wretched 
portion.  The  greatest  consolation  I  can  have  will 
be  to  carry  it  with  me  to  a  state  of  eternal  rest ; 
which,  vile  as  I  am,  I  hope  to  obtain,  through  the 
infinite  mercy  of  Heaven,  as  revealed  in  the  gospel 
of  Christ.  I  must  see  Major  Sanford  again.  It 
is  necessary  to  converse  further  with  him  in  order 
to  carry  my  plan  of  operation  into  execution." 

"  What  is  this  plan  of  operation,  Eliza  ?  "  said 
I.  "  I  am  on  the  rack  of  anxiety  for  your  safety." 
"  Be  patient,"  continued  she,  "  and  you  shall  soon 
be  informed.  To-morrow  I  shall  write  my  dread 
ful  story  to  my  mother.  She  will  be  acquainted 
with  my  future  intentions ;  and  you  shall  know, 
at  the  same  time,  the  destination  of  your  lost 
friend."  "  I  hope,"  said  I,  "  that  you  have  formed 
no  resolution  against  your  own  life."  "  God  for 
bid,"  rejoined  she.  "  My  breath  is  in  his  hands  ; 
let  him  do  what  seemet-h  good  in  his  sight !  Keep 


266  THE   COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

my  secret  one  day  longer,  and  I  will  never  more 
impose  so  painful  a  silence  upon  you." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  home.  She  drank 
tea  with  composure,  and  soon  retired  to  rest.  Mrs. 
Wharton  eagerly  inquired  whether  I  had  found  out 
the  cause  of  Eliza's  melancholy.  "  I  have  urged 
her,"  said  I,  "  on  the  subject ;  but  she  alleges  that 
she  has  particular  reasons  for  present  conceal 
ment.  She  has,  notwithstanding,  promised  to  let 
me  know  the  day  after  to-morrow."  "  O,"  said 
she,  "  I  shall  not  rest  till  the  period  arrives." 
"  Dear,  good  woman,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  fear  you 
will  never  rest  afterwards." 

This  is  our  present  situation.  Think  what  a 
scene  rises  to  the  view  of  your  Julia.  She  must 
share  the  distress  of  others,  though  her  own  feel 
ings  on  this  unhappy  occasion  are  too  keen  to  ad 
mit  a  moment's  serenity.  My  greatest  relief  is  in 
writing  to  you ;  which  I  shall  do  again  by  the 
next  post.  In  the  mean  time,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
subscribe  myself  sincerely  yours, 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   267 

LETTER    LXVII. 

To    THE    SAME. 

HARTFORD. 

All  is  now  lost ;  lost  indeed !  She  is  gone ! 
Yes,  my  dear  friend,  our  beloved  Eliza  is  gone ! 
Never  more  shall  we  behold  this  once  amiable 
companion,  this  once  innocent  and  happy  girl. 
She  has  forsaken,  and,  as  she  says,  bid  an  everlast 
ing  adieu  to  her  home,  her  afflicted  parent,  and 
her  friends.  But  I  will  take  up  my  melancholy 
story  where  I  left  it  in  my  last. 

She  went,  as  she  told  me  she  expected,  into  the 
garden,  and  met  her  detestable  paramour.  In  about 
an  hour  she  returned,  and  went  directly  to  her 
chamber.  At  one  o'clock  I  went  up,  and  found 
her  writing,  and  weeping.  I  begged  her  to  com 
pose  herself,  and  go  down  to  dinner.  No,  she 
said,  she  should  not  eat ;  and  was  not  fit  to  appear 
before  any  body.  I  remonstrated  against  her  im 
moderate  grief,  represented  the  injury  she  must 
sustain  by  the  indulgence  of  it,  and  conjured  her 
to  suppress  the  violence  of  its  emotions. 

She  entreated  me  to  excuse  her  to  her  mamma ; 
said  she  was  writing  to  her,  and  found  it  a  task 
too  painful  to  be  performed  with  any  degree  of 
composure ;  that  she  was  almost  ready  to  sink 


268  THE   COQUETTE  ;    OR,   THE 

under  the  weight  of  her  affliction ;  but  hoped 
and  prayed  for  support  both  in  this  and  another 
trying  scene  which  awaited  her.  In  compliance 
with  her  desire,  I  now  left  her,  and  told  her 
mamma  that  she  was  very  busy  writing,  wished 
not  to  be  interrupted  at  present,  but  would  take 
some  refreshment  an  hour  or  two  hence.  I  visited 
her  again  about  four  o'clock  ;  when  she  appeared 
more  calm  and  tranquil. 

"  It  is  finished,"  said  she,  as  I  entered  her  apart 
ment  ;  "  it  is  finished."  "  What,"  said  I,  « is  fin 
ished  ?  "  "  No  matter,"  replied  she  ;  "  you  will  know 
all  to-morrow,  Julia."  She  complained  of  excessive 
fatigue,  and  expressed  an  inclination  to  lie  down  ; 
in  which  I  assisted  her,  and  then  retired.  Some 
time  after,  her  mamma  went  up,  and  found  her  still 
on  the  bed.  She  rose,  however,  and  accompanied  her 
down  stairs.  I  met  her  at  the  door  of  the  parlor, 
and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  inquired  how  she  did. 
"  O  Julia,  miserably  indeed,"  said  she.  "  How 
severely  does  my  mother's  kindness  reproach  me ! 
How  insupportably  it  increases  my  self-condem 
nation  ! "  She  wept ;  she  rung  her  hands,  and 
walked  the  room  in  the  greatest  agony.  Mrs. 
Wharton  was  exceedingly  distressed  by  her  ap 
pearance.  "  Tell  me,  Eliza,"  said  she,  "  tell  me 
the  cause  of  your  trouble.  O,  kill  me  not  by  your 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   269 

mysterious  concealment.  My  dear  child,  let  me  by 
sharing  alleviate  your  affliction."  "  Ask  me  not, 
madam,"  said  she  ;  "  O  my  mother,  I  conjure  you 
not  to  insist  on  my  divulging  to-night  the  fatal  secret 
which  engrosses  and  distracts  my  mind ;  to-mor 
row  I  will  hide  nothing  from  you."  "  I  will  press 
you  no  further,"  rejoined  her  mamma.  "  Choose 
your  own  time,  my  dear ;  but  remember,  I  must  par 
ticipate  your  grief,  though  I  know  not  the  cause." 
Supper  was  brought  in,  and  we  endeavored  to 
prevail  on  Eliza  to  eat,  but  in  vain.  She  sat  down 
in  compliance  with  our  united  importunities ;  but 
neither  of  us  tasted  food.  It  was  removed  un 
touched.  For  a  while,  Mrs.  Wharton  and  I  gazed 
in  silent  anguish  upon  the  spectacle  of  woe  before 
us.  At  length  Eliza  rose  to  retire.  "  Julia,"  said 
she,  "  you  will  call  at  my  chamber  as  you  pass  to 
your  own  ? "  I  assented.  She  then  approached 
her  mamma,  fell  upon  her  knees  before  her,  and 
clasping  her  hand,  said,  in  broken  accents,  "  O 
madam,  can  you  forgive  a  wretch,  who  has  for 
feited  your  love,  your  kindness,  and  your  compas 
sion?"  "Surely,  Eliza,"  said  she,  "you  are  not 
that  being!  No,  it  is  impossible!  But  however 
great  your  transgression,  be  assured  of  my  forgive 
ness,  rny  compassion,  and  my  continued  love." 
Saying  this,  she  threw  her  arms  about  her  daugh- 


270  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

ter's  neck,  and  affectionately  kissed  her.  Eliza 
struggled  from  her  embrace,  and  looking  at  her 
with  wild  despair,  exclaimed,  "  This  is  too  much  ! 
O,  this  unmerited  goodness  is  more  than  I  can 
bear !  "  She  then  rushed  precipitately  out  of  the 
room,  and  left  us  overwhelmed  in  sympathy  and 
astonishment. 

When  Mrs.  Wharton  had  recovered  herself  a 
little,  she  observed  that  Eliza's  brain  was  evi 
dently  disordered.  "  Nothing  else,"  continued  she, 
"could  impel  her  to  act  in  this  extraordinary  man 
ner."  At  first  she  was  resolved  to  follow  her;  but 
I  dissuaded  her  from  it,  alleging  that,  as  she  had 
desired  me  to  come  into  her  chamber,  I  thought  it 
better  for  me  to  go  alone.  She  acquiesced,  but 
said  she  should  not  think  of  going  to  bed,  but 
would,  however,  retire  to  her  chamber,  and  seek 
consolation  there.  I  bade  her  good  night,  and 
went  up  to  Eliza,  who  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
led  me  to  the  toilet,  upon  which  she  laid  the  two 
enclosed  letters,  the  one  to  her  mamma,  and  the 
other  to  me.  "  These,"  said  she,  "  contain  what  I 
had  not  resolution  to  express.  Promise  me,  Julia, 
that  they  shall  not  be  opened  till  to-morrow  morn 
ing."  "  I  will,"  said  I.  "  I  have  thought  and  wept," 
continued  she,  "  till  I  have  almost  exhausted  my 
strength  and  my  reason.  I  would  now  obtain  a 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF  ELIZA   WHARTON.   271 

little  respite,  that  I  may  prepare  my  mind  for  the 
account  I  am  one  day  to  give  at  a  higher  tribunal 
than  that  of  earthly  friends.  For  this  purpose, 
what  I  have  written,  and  what  I  shall  yet  say  to 
you,  must  close  the  account  between  you  and  me." 
"  I  have  certainly  no  balance  against  you,"  said  I. 
"  In  my  breast  you  are  fully  acquitted.  Your 
penitential  tears  have  obliterated  your  guilt  and 
blotted  out  your  errors  with  your  Julia.  Hence 
forth,  be  they  all  forgotten.  Live,  and  be  happy." 
"  Talk  not,"  said  she,  "  of  life ;  it  would  be  a  vain 
hope,  though  I  cherished  it  myself. 

'  That  I  must  die,  it  is  my  only  comfort ;  . 

Death  is  the  privilege  of  human  nature, 
And  life  without  it  were  not  worth  the  taking. 
Thither  the  poor,  the  prisoner,  and  the  mourner 
Fly  for  relief,  and  lay  their  burdens  down.' 

You  have  forgiven  me,  Julia ;  my  mother  has 
assured  me  of  her  forgiveness;  and  what  have  I 
more  to  wish  ?  My  heart  is  much  lightened  by 
these  kind  assurances  ;  they  will  be  a  great  sup 
port  to  me  in  the  dreadful  hour  which  awaits  me." 
"  What  mean  you,  Eliza  ?  "  said  I.  "  I^fear  some 
dreadful  purpose  labors  in  your  mind."  "  O,  no," 
she  replied  ;  "  you  may  be  assured  your  fear  is 
groundless.  I  know  not  what  I  say ;  my  brain  is 
on  fire ;  I  am  all  confusion.  Leave  me,  Julia  ; 


272  THE  COQUETTE;  OR,  THE 

when  I  have  had  a  little  rest,  I  shall  be  composed. 
These  letters  have  almost  distracted  me  ;  but  they 
are  written,  and  I  am  comparatively  easy."  "  I  will 
not  leave  you,  Eliza,"  said  I,  "  unless  you  will  go 
directly  to  bed,  and  endeavor  to  rest."  "  I  will," 
said  she,  "  and  the  sooner  the  better."  I  tenderly 
embraced  her,  and  retired,  though  not  to  bed. 
About  an  hour  after,  I  returned  to  her  chamber, 
and  opening  the  door  very  softly,  found  her  appar 
ently  asleep.  I  acquainted  Mrs.  Wharton  with 
her  situation,  which  was  a  great  consolation  to  us 
both,  and  encouraged  us  to  go  to  bed  :  having  suf 
fered  much  in  my  mind,  and  being  much  fatigued, 
I  soon  fell  asleep ;  but  the  rattling  of  a  carriage, 
which  appeared  to  stop  a  little  distance  from  the 
house,  awoke  me.  I  listened  a  moment,  and  heard 
the  door  turn  slowly  on  its  hinges.  I  sprang  from 
my  bed,  and  reached  the  window  just  in  time  to 
see  a  female  handed  into  a  chaise  by  a  man  who 
hastily  followed  her,  and  drove  furiously  away. 
I  at  once  concluded  they  could  be  no  other  than 
Eliza  and  Major  Sanford.  Under  this  impression 
I  made  no  delay,  but  ran  immediately  to  her 
chamber.  A  candle  was  burning  on  the  table, 
but  Eliza  was  not  there.  I  thought  it  best  to  ac 
quaint  her  mamma  with  the  melancholy  discovery, 
.and,  stepping  to  her  apartment  for  the  purpose, 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELTZA   WHAETON.   273 

found  her  rising.  She  had  heard  me  walk,  and 
was  anxious  to  know  the  cause.  "  What  is  the 
matter,  Julia  ?  "  said  she  ;  "  what  is  the  matter?  " 
"  Dear  madam,"  said  I,  "  arm  yourself  with  forti 
tude."  "  What  new  occurrence  demands  it?  "  re 
joined  she.  "  Eliza  has  left  us."  "  Left  us  !  What 
mean  you?"  "She  has  just  gone;  I  saw  her 
handed  into  a  chaise,  which  instantly  disap 
peared." 

At  this  intelligence  she  gave  a  shriek,  and  fell 
back  on  her  bed.  I  alarmed  the  family,  and  by 
their  assistance  soon  recovered  her.  She  desired 
me  to  inform  her  of  every  particular  relative  to  her 
elopement,  which  I  did,  and  then  delivered  her  the 
letter  which  Eliza  had  left  for  her.  "  I  suspect," 
said  she,  as  she  took  it ;  "I  have  long  suspected 
what  I  dared  not  believe.  The  anguish  of  my 
mind  has  been  known  only  to  myself  and  my 
God."  I  could  not  answer  her,  and  therefore  with 
drew.  When  I  had  read  Eliza's  letter  to  me,  and 
wept  over  the  sad  fall,  and,  as  I  fear,  the  total  loss 
of  this  once  amiable  and  accomplished  girl,  I  re 
turned  to  Mrs.  Wharton.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
easy  chair,  and  still  held  the  fatal  letter  in  her 
hand.  When  I  entered,  she  fixed  her  streaming 
eyes  upon  me,  and  exclaimed,  "  O  Julia,  this  is 
more  than  the  bitterness  of  death."  "  True, 
17 


274  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR  THE 

madam,"  said  I,  "  your  affliction  must  be  great;  yet 
that  all-gracious  Being  who  controls  every  event 
is  able,  and  I  trust  disposed,  to  support  you."  "  To 
him,"  replied  she,  "  I  desire  humbly  to  resign  my 
self;  but  I  think  I  could  have  borne  almost  any 
other  calamity  with  greater  resignation  and  com 
posure  than  this.  With  how  much  comparative 
ease  could  I  have  followed  her  to  the  grave  at  any 
period  since  her  birth!  0,  my  child,  my  child! 
dear,  very  dear,  hast  thou  been  to  my  fond  heart. 
Little  did  I  think  it  possible  for  you  to  prepare  so 
dreadful  a  cup  of  sorrow  for  your  widowed  moth 
er.  But  where,"  continued  she, "  where  can  the  poor 
fugitive  have  fled  ?  Where  can  she  find  that  pro 
tection  and  tenderness,  which,  notwithstanding  her 
great  apostasy,  I  should  never  have  withheld  ? 
From  whom  can  she  receive  those  kind  attentions 
which  her  situation  demands." 

The  agitation  of  her  mind  had  exhausted  her 
strength,  and  I  prevailed  on  her  to  refresh  and  en 
deavor  to  compose  herself  to  rest,  assuring  her  of 
my  utmost  exertions  to  find  out  Eliza's  retreat,  and 
restore  her  to  a  mother's  arms. 

I  am  obliged  to  suppress  my  own  emotions,  and 
to  bend  all  my  thoughts  towards  the  alleviation  of 
Mrs.  Wharton's  anxiety  and  grief. 

Major  Sanford  is  from  home,  as  I  expected  ;  and 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   275 

I  am  determined,  if  he  return,  to  see  him  myself, 
and  extort  from  him  the  place  of  Eliza's  conceal 
ment.  Her  flight  in  her  present  state  of  health 
is  inexpressibly  distressing  to  her  mother ;  and  un 
less  we  find  her  soon,  I  dread  the  effects. 

I  shall  not  close  this  till  I  have  seen  or  heard 
from  the  vile  miscreant  who  has  involved  a  worthy 
family  in  wretchedness. 

Friday  morning.  —  Two  days  have  elapsed  with 
out  affording  us  much  relief.  Last  evening,  I  was 
told  that  Major  Sanford  was  at  home.  I  imme 
diately  wrote  him  a  billet,  entreating  and  conjuring 
him  to  let  me  know  where  the  hapless  Eliza  had 
fled.  He  returned  me  the  following  answer:  — 

"  Miss  Granby  need  be  under  no  apprehensions 
respecting  the  situation  of  our  beloved  Eliza.  She 
is  well  provided  for,  conveniently  accommodated, 
and  has  every  thing  to  make  her  happy  which  love 
and  aflluence  can  give. 

"  Major  Sanford  has  solemnly  sworn  not  to  dis 
cover  her  retreat.  She  wishes  to  avoid  the  accusa 
tions  of  her  friends  till  she  is  better  able  to  bear 
them. 

"  Her  mother  may  rest  assured  of  immediate  infor 
mation,  should  any  danger  threaten  her  amiable 
daughter;  and  also  of  having  seasonable  notice 
of  her  safety." 


27fi  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

Although  little  dependence  can  be  placed  upon 
this  man,  yet  these  assurances  have,  in  a  great  de 
gree,  calmed  our  minds.  We  are,  however,  con 
triving  means  to  explore  the  refuge  of  the  wander 
er,  and  hope,  by  tracing  his  steps,  to  accomplish 
our  purpose.  This  we  have  engaged  a  friend 
to  do. 

I  know,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sumner,  the  kind  interest 
you  will  take  in  this  disastrous  affair.  I  tremble 
to  think  what  the  event  may  be.  To  relieve  your 
suspense,  however,  I  shall  write  you  every  circum 
stance  as  it  occurs ;  but  at  present,  I  shall  only  en 
close  Eliza's  letters  to  her  mamma  and  me,  and 
subscribe  myself  your  sincere  and  obliged  friend, 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LETTER    LXVITT. 

To   MRS.   M.  WHARTON. 

TUESDAY. 

My  honored  and  dear  mamma:  In  what  words, 
in  what  language  shall  I  address  you  ?  What 
shall  I  say  on  a  subject  which  deprives  me  of  the 
power  of  expression  ?  Would  to  God  I  had  been 
totally  deprived  of  that  power  before  so  fatal  a  sub 
ject  required  its  exertion.  'Repentance  comes  too 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHABTOX.    277 

late,  when  it  cannot  prevent  the  evil  lamented  :  for 
your  kindness,  your  more  than  maternal  affection 
towards  me,  from  my  infancy  to  the  present  mo 
ment,  a  long  life  of  filial  duty  and  unerring  recti 
tude  could  hardly  compensate.  How  greatly  defi 
cient  in  gratitude  must  I  appear,  then,  while  I  con 
fess  that  precept  and  example,  counsel  and  advice, 
instruction  and  admonition,  have  been  all  lost 
upon  me! 

Your  kind  endeavors  to  promote  my  happiness 
have  been  repaid  by  the  inexcusable  folly  of  sacri 
ficing  it.  The  various  emotions  of  shame  and  re 
morse,  penitence  and  regret,  which  torture  and  dis 
tract  my  guilty  breast,  exceed  description.  Yes, 
madam,  your  Eliza  has  fallen,  fallen  indeed.  She 
has  become  the  victim  of  her  own  indiscretion, 
and  of  the  intrigue  and  artifice  of  a  designing  lib 
ertine,  who  is  the  husband  of  another.  She  is  pol 
luted,  and  no  more  worthy  of  her  parentage.  She 
flies  from  you,  not  to  conceal  her  guilt,  (that  she 
humbly  and  penitently  owns,)  but  to  avoid  what 
she  has  never  experienced,  and  feels  herself  unable 
to  support —  a  mother's  frown  ;  to  escape  the  heart 
rending  sight  of  a  parent's  grief,  occasioned  by  the 
crimes  of  her  guilty  child. 

I  have  become  a  reproach  and  disgrace  to  my 
friends.  The  consciousness  of  having  forfeited 


278  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

their  favor  and  incurred  their  disapprobation  and 
resentment  induces  me  to  conceal  from  them  the 
place  of  my  retirement ;  but  lest  your  benevolence 
should  render  you  anxious  for  my  comfort  in  my 
present  situation,  I  take  the  liberty  to  assure  you 
that  I  arn  amply  provided  for. 

I  have  no  claim  even  upon  your  pity ;  but  from 
rny  long  experience  of  your  tenderness.  I  presume 
to  hope  it  will  be  extended  to  me.  O  my  mother, 
if  you  knew  what  the  state  of  my  mind  is,  and  has 
been  for  months  past,  you  would  surely  compas 
sionate  my  case.  Could  tears  efface  the  stain 
which  I  have  brought  upon  my  family,  it  would 
long  since  have  been  washed  away ;  but,  alas ! 
tears  are  in  vain  ;  and  vain  is  my  bitter  repent 
ance  ;  it  cannot  obliterate  my  crime,  nor  restore 
me  to  innocence  and  peace.  In  this  life  I  have  no 
ideas  of  happiness.  These  I  have  wholly  resigned. 
The  only  hope  which  affords  me  any  solace  is  that 
of  your  forgiveness.  If  the  deepest  contrition  can 
make  an  atonement,  —  if  the  severest  pains,  both  of 
body  and  mind,  can  restore  me  to  your  charity, 
—  you  will  not  be  inexorable.  O,  let  my  sufferings 
be  deemed  a  sufficient  punishment,  and  add  not 
the  insupportable  weight  of  a  parent's  wrath.  At 
present  I  cannot  see  you.  The  effect  of  my  crime 
is  too  obvious  to  be  longer  concealed,  to  elude  the 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   279 

invidious  eye  of  curiosity.  This  night,  therefore,  I 
leave  your  hospitable  mansion.  This  night  I  be 
come  a  wretched  wanderer  from  my  paternal  roof. 
O  that  the  grave  were  this  night  to  be  my  lodging! 
Then  should  I  lie  down  and  be  at  rest.  Trusting 
in  the  mercy  of  God,  through  the  mediation  of 
his  Son,  I  think  I  could  meet  my  heavenly  Father 
with  more  composure  and  confidence  than  my 
earthly  parent. 

Let  not  the  faults  and  misfortunes  of  your 
daughter  oppress  your  mind.  Rather  let  the  con 
viction  of  having  faithfully  discharged  your  duty 
to  your  lost  child  support  and  console  you  in  this 
trying  scene. 

Since  I  wrote  the  above,  you  have  kindly  granted 
me  your  forgiveness,  though  you  knew  not  how 
great,  how  aggravated  was  my  offence.  You  for 
give  me,  you  say.  O,  the  harmonious,  the  trans 
porting  sound  !  It  has  revived  my  drooping  spirits, 
and  will  enable  me  to  encounter,  with  resolution, 
the  trials  before  me. 

Farewell,  my  dear  mamma  !  Pity  and  pray  for 
your  ruined  child ;  and  be  assured  that  affection 
and  gratitude  will  be  the  last  sentiments  which 
expire  in  the  breast  of  your  repenting  daughter, 

ELIZA  WHARTON. 


280  THE   COQUETTE  ;   OR,   THE 

LETTER    LXIX. 

To  Miss  JULIA  GRANBY. 

TUESDAY. 

My  dear  friend :  By  that  endearing  title  you 
permit  me  still  to  address  you,  and  such  you  have 
always  proved  yourself  by  a  participation  of  my 
distresses,  as  well  as  by  the  consoling  voice  of  pity 
and  forgiveness.  What  destiny  Providence  de 
signs  for  me  I  know  not,  but  I  have  my  fore 
bodings  that  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  accost 
you.  Nor  does  this  apprehension  arise  merely  from 
a  disturbed  imagination.  I  have  reason  to  think 
myself  in  a  confirmed  consumption,  which  com 
monly  proves  fatal  to  persons  in  my  situation.  I 
have  carefully  concealed  every  complaint  of  the 
kind  from  my  mamma,  for  fear  of  distressing  her ; 
yet  I  have  never  been  insensible  of  their  probable 
issue,  and  have  bidden  a  sincere  welcome  to  them, 
as  the  harbingers  of  my  speedy  release  from  a  life 
of  guilt  and  woe. 

I  am  going  from  you,  Julia.  This  night  sep 
arates  us,  perhaps,  forever.  I  have  not  resolution 
to  encounter  the  tears  of  my  friends,  and  there 
fore  seek  shelter  among  strangers,  where  none 
knows  or  is  interested  in  my  melancholy  story. 
The  place  of  my  seclusion  I  studiously  conceal ; 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON".   281 

yet  I  shall  take  measures  that  you  may  be  ap 
prised  of  my  fate. 

Should  it  please  God  to  spare  and  restore  me  to 
health,  I  shall  return,  and  endeavor,  by  a  life  of 
penitence  and  rectitude,  to  expiate  my  past  of 
fences.  But  should  I  be  called  from  this  scene  of 
action,  and  leave  behind  me  a  helpless  babe,  the 
innocent  sufferer  of  its  mother's  shame,  O  Julia,  let 
your  friendship  for  me  extend  to  the  little  stranger. 
Intercede  with  my  mother  to  take  it  under  her 
protection,  and  transfer  to  it  all  her  affection  for 
me  ;  to  train  it  up  in  the  ways  of  piety  and  virtue, 
that  it  may  compensate  her  for  the  afflictions 
which  I  have  occasioned. 

One  thing  more  I  have  to  request.  Plead  for 
me  with  my  two  best  friends,  Mrs.  Richman  and 
Mrs.  Sumner.  I  ask  you  not  to  palliate  my  faults, 
—  that  cannot  be  done,  —  but  to  obtain,  if  possible, 
their  forgiveness.  I  cannot  write  all  my  full  rnind 
s>  ;<.;gests  on  this  subject.  You  know  the  purport, 
and  can  better  express  it  for  me. 

And  now,  my  dear  Julia,  recommending  myself 
again  to  your  benevolence,  to  your  charity,  and 
(may  I  add  ?)  to  your  affection,  and  entreating 
that  the  fatal  consequences  of  my  folly,  now  fallen 
upon  my  devoted  head,  may  suffice  for  my  punish 
ment,  let  me  conjure  you  to  bury  my  crimes  in 


282  THE    COQUETTE;    OR,    THE 

the  grave  with  me,  and  to  preserve  the  remembrance 
of  my  former  virtues,  which  engaged  your  love 
and  confidence ;  more  especially  of  that  ardent 
esteem  for  you,  which  will  glow  till  the  last  expir 
ing  breath  of  your  despairing 

ELIZA   WHARTON. 


LETTER    LXX. 

To   MR.  CHARLES  DEIGHTON. 

HARTFORD. 

I  have,  at  last,  accomplished  the  removal  of  my 
darling  girl  from  a  place  where  she  thought  every 
eye  accused  and  every  heart  condemned  her. 

She  has  become  quite  romantic  in  her  notions. 
She  would  not  permit  me  to  accompany  her,  lest 
it  should  be  reported  that  we  had  eloped  together. 
I  provided  amply  for  her  future  exigencies,  and 
conveyed  her  by  night  to  the  distance  of  ten  or 
twelve  miles,  where  we  met  the  stage,  in  which  I 
had  previously  secured  her  a  seat.  The  agony  of 
her  grief  at  being  thus  obliged  to  leave  her 
mother's  house  baffles  all  description. 

It  very  sensibly  affected  me,  I  know.  I  was 
almost  a  penitent.  I  am  sure  I  acted  like  one, 
whether  I  were  sincere  or  not.  She  chose  to  go 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   283 

where  she  was  totally  unknown.  She  would  leave 
the  stage,  she  said,  before  it  reached  Boston,  and 
take  passage  in  a  more  private  carriage  to  Salem, 
or  its  vicinity,  where  she  would  fix  her  abode ; 
chalking  the  initials  of  my  name  over  the  door,  as 
a  signal  to  me  of  her  residence. 

She  is  exceedingly  depressed,  and  says  she 
neither  expects  nor  wishes  to  survive  her  lying  in. 
Insanity,  for  aught  I  know,  must  be  my  lot  if  she 
should  die.  But  I  will  not  harbor  the  idea.  I 

"9 

hope,  one  time  or  other,  to  have  the  power  to  make 
her  amends,  even  by  marriage.  My  wife  may  be 
provoked,  I  imagine,  to  sue  for  a  divorce.  If.  she 
should,  she  would  find  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
it,  and  then  I  would  take  Eliza  in  her  stead ; 
though  I  confess  that  the  idea  of  being  thus  con 
nected  with  a  woman  whom  I  have  been  enabled 
to  dishonor,  would  be  rather  hard  to  surmount. 
It  would  hurt  even  my  delicacy,  little  as  you  may 
think  me  to  possess,  to  have  a  wife  whom  I  know 
to  be  seducible.  And  on  this  account  I  cannot  be 
positive  that  even  Eliza  would  retain  my  love. 

My  Nancy  and  I  have  lived  a  pretty  uncomfort 
able  life  of  late.  She  has  been  very  suspicious 
of  my  amour  with  Eliza,  and  now  and  then  ex 
pressed  her  jealous  sentiments  a  little  more  warm 
ly  than  my  patience  would  bear.  But  the  news 


284  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

of  Eliza's  circumstances  and  itiMrement,  being  pub 
licly  talked  of,  have  reached  he^  oars,  and  rendered 
her  quite  outrageous.  She  td.  s  me  she  will  no 
longer  brook  my  indifference  and  infidelity ;  in 
tends  soon  to  return  to  her  father's  house,  and 
extricate  herself  from  me  entirely.  My  general 
reply  to  all  this  is,  that  she  knew  my  character 
before  we  married,  and  could  reasonably  expect 
nothing  less  than  what  has  happened.  I  shall  not 
oppose  her  leaving  me,  as  it  may  conduce  to  the 
execution  of  the  plan  I  have  hinted  above. 

To-morrow  I  shall  set  out  to  visit  my  disconso 
late  fair  one.  From  my  very  soul  I  pity  her,  and 
wish  I  could  have  preserved  her  virtue  consistently 
with  the  indulgence  of  my  passion.  To  her  I  lay 
not  the  principal  blame,  as  in  like  cases  I  do  the 
sex  in  general.  My  finesse  was  too  well  planned 
for  detection,  and  my  snares  too  deeply  laid  for 
any  one  to  escape  who  had  the  least  warmth  in 
her  constitution,  or  affection  in  her  heart.  I  shall, 
therefore,  be  the  less  whimsical  about  a  future 
connection,  and  the  more  solicitous  to  make  her 
reparation,  should  it  ever  be  in  my  power. 

Her  friends  are  all  in  arms  about  her.  I  dare  say  I 
have  the  imprecations  of  the  whole  fraternity.  They 
may  thank  themselves  in  part,  for  I  always  swore  re 
venge  for  their  dislike  and  coldness  towards  me.  Had 


LIFE   AND  LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAETON.   285 

they  been  politic,  they  would  have  conducted  more 
like  the  aborigines  of  the  country,  who  are  said  to 
worship  the  devil  out  of  fear. 

I  am  afraid  I  shall  be  obliged  to  remove  my 
quarters,  for  Eliza  was  so  great  a  favorite  in  town 
that  I  am  looked  upon  with  an  evil  eye.  I  pleaded 
with  her,  before  we  parted  last,  to  forgive  my  se 
ducing  her,  alleged  my  ardent  love,  and  my  ina 
bility  to  possess  her  in  any  other  way.  "  How," 
said  she,  "  can  that  be  love  which  destroys  its 
object  ?  But  granting  what  you  say,  you  have 
frustrated  your  own  purpose.  You  have  deprived 
yourself  of  my  society,  which  might  have  been 
innocently  enjoyed.  You  have  cut  me  off  from 
life  in  the  midst  of  my  days.  You  have  rendered 
me  the  reproach  of  my  friends,  the  disgrace  of  my 
family  and  a  dishonor  to  virtue  and  my  sex.  But 
I  forgive  you,"  added  she.  "  Yes,  Sanford,  I  for 
give  you,  and  sincerely  pray  for  your  repentance 
and  reformation.  I  hope  to  be  the  last  wretched 
female  sacrificed  by  you  to  the  arts  of  falsehood 
and  seduction.  May  my  unhappy  story  serve  as 
a  beacon  to  warn  the  American  fair  of  the  dan 
gerous  tendency  and  destructive  consequences  of 
associating  with  men  of  your  character,  of  destroy 
ing  their  time  and  risking  their  reputation  by  the 
practice  of  coquetry  and  its  attendant  follies. 


286  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

But  for  these  I  might  have  been  honorably  con 
nected,  and  capable,  at  this  moment,  of  diffusing 
and  receiving  happiness.  But  for  your  arts  I 
might  have  remained  a  blessing  to  society,  as  well 
as  the  delight  and  comfort  of  my  friends.  You 
being  a  married  man  unspeakably  aggravates 
both  your  guilt  and  mine.  This  circumstance 
annexes  indelible  shame  to  our  crime.  You  have 
rent  asunder  the  tenderest  ties  of  nature.  You 
have  broken  the  bonds  of  conjugal  love,  which 
ought  ever  to  be  kept  sacred  and  inviolate.  You 
have  filled  with  grief  and  discontent  the  heart  of 
your  amiable  wife,  whom  gratitude,  if  no  other 
principle,  should  have  induced  you  to  cherish  with 
tenderness  ;  and  I,  wretch  that  I  arn,  have  been 
your  accomplice.  But  I  cease  to  reproach  you. 
You  have  acted  but  too  consistently  with  the  char 
acter  which  I  was  sufficiently  apprised  you  sus 
tained.  The  blame,  then,  may  be  retorted  on  my 
self,  for  disregarding  the  counsels,  warnings,  and 
admonitions  of  my  best  friends.  You  have  prided 
yourself  in  the  character  of  a  libertine.  Glory  no 
longer  in  your  shame.  You  have  accomplished 
your  designs,  your  dreadful  designs,  against  me. 
Let  this  suffice.  Add  not  to  the  number  of  those 
deluded  creatures  who  will  one  day  rise  up  in 
judgment  against  you  and  condemn  you." 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTON.   287 

By  this  time  we  had  nearly  reached  the  inn,  and 
were  soon  to  part.  I  seized  her  hand,  and  ex 
claimed,  "  You  must  not  leave  me,  Eliza,  \vith 
that  awful  anathema  on  your  lips.  O,  say  that  you 
will  forget  my  past  faults."  "  That,"  said  she,  "  I 
shall  soon  do  ;  for  in  the  grave  there  is  no  remem 
brance."  This,  to  my  mind,  was  a  harsher  sen 
tence  than  the  other,  and  almost  threw  me  into 
despair.  Never  was  I  so  wrought  upon  before. 
I  knew  not  what  to  say  or  do.  She  saw  my  dis 
tress,  and  kindly  softened  her  manner.  "  If  I  am 
severe,"  said  she,  "  it  is  because  I  wish  to  impress 
your  mind  with  such  a  sense  of  your  offences 
against  your  Maker,  your  friends,  and  society  in 
general,  as  may  effect  your  repentance  and  amend 
ment.  I  wish  not  to  be  your  accuser,  but  your 
reformer.  On  several  accounts,  I  view  my  own 
crime  in  a  more  aggravated  light  than  yours  ;  but 
my  conscience  is  awakened  to  a  conviction  of  my 
guilt.  Yours,  I  fear,  is  not.  Let  me  conjure  you 
to  return  home,  and  endeavor,  by  your  future  kind 
ness  and  fidelity  to  your  wife,  to  make  her  all  the 
amends  in  your  power.  By  a  life  of  virtue  and 
religion,  you  may  yet  become  a  valuable  member 
of  society,  and  secure  happiness  both  here  and 
hereafter." 

I  begged  leave  to  visit  her  retirement  next  week, 


288  THE  COQUETTE;  OB,  THE 

not  in  continuation  of  our  amour,  but  as  a  friend 
solicitous  to  know  her  situation  and  welfare.  Un 
able  to  speak,  she  only  bowed  assent.  The  stage 
being  now  ready,  I  whispered  some  tender  things 
in  her  ear,  and  kissing  her  cheek,  which  was  all  she 
would  permit,  suffered  her  to  depart. 

My  body  remains  behind ;  but  my  soul,  if  I  have 
any,  went  with  her. 

This  was  a  horrid  lecture,  Charles.  She  brought 
every  charge  against  me  which  a  fruitful  and 
gloomy  imagination  could  suggest.  But  I  hope 
when  she  recovers  she  will  resume  her  former 
cheerfulness,  and  become  as  kind  and  agreeable 
as  ever.  My  anxiety  for  her  safety  is  very  great.  I 
trust,  however,  it  will  soon  be  removed,  and  peace 
and  pleasure  be  restored  to  your  humble  servant, 

PETER  SANFORD. 


LETTER    LXXI. 

To  MRS.  LUCY  SUMNER. 

HARTFORD. 

The  drama  is  now  closed !  A  tragical  one  it 
has  proved ! 

How  sincerely,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sumner,  must 
the  friends  of  our  departed  Eliza  sympathize 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHAKTON.   289 

with  each  other,  and  with  her  afflicted,  bereaved 
parent ! 

You  have  doubtless  seen  the  account  in  the  pub 
lic  papers  which  gave  us  the  melancholy  intel 
ligence.  But  I  will  give  you  a  detail  of  circum 
stances. 

•A  few  days  after  my  last  was  written,  we  heard 
that  Major  Sanford's  property  was  attached,  and 
he  a  prisoner  in  his  own  house.  He  was  the  last 
man  to  whom  we  wished  to  apply  for  information 
respecting  the  forlorn  wanderer ;  yet  we  had  no 
other  resource.  And  after  waiting  a  fortnight  in 
the  most  cruel  suspense,  we  wrote  a  billet,  entreat 
ing  him,  if  possible,  to  give  some  intelligence  con 
cerning  her.  He  replied  that  he  was  unhappily 
deprived  of  all  means  of  knowing  himself,  but 
hoped  soon  to  relieve  his  own  and  our  anxiety 
about  her. 

In  this  situation  we  continued  till  a  neigh'  or 
(purposely,  we  since  concluded)  sent  us  a  E  ton 
paper.  Mrs.  Wharton  took  it,  and  unconscious  of 
its  contents,  observed  that  the  perusal  might  divert 
her  a  few  moments.  She  read  for  some  time,  when 
it  suddenly  dropped  upon  the  floor.  She  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and  raising  her  streaming  eyes 
to  heaven,  exclaimed,  "  It  is  the  Lord ;  let  him  do 
what  he  will.  Be  still,  O  my  soul,  and  know 
that  he  is  God."  18 


290  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

"  What,  madam,"  said  I,  "  can  be  the  matter  ?  " 
She  answered  not,  but,  with  inexpressible  anguish 
depicted  in  her  countenance,  pointed  to  the  paper. 
I  took  it  up,  and  soon  found  the  fatal  paragraph. 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  paint  our  heartfelt  grief  and 
lamentation  upon  this  occasion ;  for  we  had  no 
doubt  of  Eliza's  being  the  person  described,  as  a 
stranger,  who  died  at  Danvers,  last  July.  Her 
delivery  of  a  child,  her  dejected  state  of  mind,  the 
marks  upon  her  linen,  indeed  every  circumstance 
in  the  advertisement,  convinced  us,  beyond  dispute, 
that  it  could  be  no  other.  Mrs.  Wharton  retired 
immediately  to  her  chamber,  where  she  continued 
overwhelmed  with  sorrow  that  night  and  the  fol 
lowing  day.  Such  in  fact  has  been  her  habitual 
frame  ever  since ;  though  the  endeavors  of  her 
friends,  who  have  sought  to  console  her,  have  ren 
dered  her  somewhat  more  conversable.  My  testi 
mony  of  Eliza's  penitence  before  her  departure  is 
a  source  of  comfort  to  this  disconsolate  parent. 
i-5he  fondly  cherished  the  idea  that,  having  expiated 
her  offence  by  sincere  repentance  and  amendment, 
her  deluded  child  finally  made  a  happy  exchange 
of  worlds.  But  the  desperate  resolution,  which  she 
formed  and  executed,  of  becoming  a  fugitive,  of 
deserting  her  mother's  house  and  protection,  and 
of  wandering  and  dying  among  strangers,  is  a 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WIIARTOX.    291 

most  distressing  reflection  to  her  friends ;  especially 
to  her  mother,  in  whose  breast  so  many  painful 
ideas  arise,  that  she  finds  it  extremely  difficult  to 
compose  herself  to  that  resignation  which  she  evi 
dently  strives  to  exemplify. 

Eliza's  brother  has  been  to  visit  her  last  retreat, 
and  to  learn  the  particulars  of  her  melancholy  exit. 
He  relates  that  she  was  well  accommodated,  and 
had  every  attention  and  assistance  which  her  sit 
uation  required.  The  people  where  she  resided 
appear  to  have  a  lively  sense  of  her  merit  and 
misfortunes.  They  testify  her  modest  deportment, 
her  fortitude  under  the  sufferings  to  which  she  was 
called,  and  the  serenity  and  composure  with  which 
she  bade  a  last  adieu  to  the  world.  Mr.  Wharton 
has  brought  back  several  scraps  of  her  writing, 
containing  miscellaneous  reflections  on  her  situa 
tion,  the  death  of  her  babe,  and  the  absence  of  her 
friends.  Some  of  these  were  written  before,  some 
after,  her  confinement.  These  valuable  testimonies 
of  the  affecting  sense  and  calm  expectation  she 
entertained  of  her  approaching  dissolution  are 
calculated  to  soothe  and  comfort  the  minds  of 
mourning  connections.  They  greatly  alleviate  the 
regret  occasioned  by  her  absence  at  this  awful 
period.  Her  elopement  can  be  equalled  only  by 
the  infatuation  which  caused  her  ruin. 


292  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OK,    THE 

"  But  let  no  one  reproach  her  memory. 
Her  life  has  paid  the  forfeit  of  her  folly. 
Let  that  suffice." 

I  am  told  that  Major  Sanford  is  quite  frantic. 
Sure  I  am  that  he  has  reason  to  be.  If  the  mis 
chiefs  he  has  brought  upon  others  return  upon  his 
own  head,  dreadful  indeed  must  be  his  portion. 
His  wife  has  left  him,  and  returned  to  her  parents. 
His  estate,  which  has  been  long  mortgaged,  is 
taken  from  him,  and  poverty  and  disgrace  await 
him.  Heaven  seldom  leaves  injured  innocence 
unavenged.  Wretch  that  he  is,  he  ought  forever 
to  be  banished  from  human  society  !  I  shall  con 
tinue  with  Mrs.  Wharton  till  the  lenient  hand  of 
time  has  assuaged  her  sorrows,  and  then  make 
rny  promised  visit  to  you.  I  will  bring  Eliza's 
posthumous  papers  with  rne  when  I  come  to  Bos 
ton,  as  I  have  not  time  to  copy  them  now. 

I  foresee,  my  dear  Mrs.  Sumner,  that  this  disas 
trous  affair  will  suspend  your  enjoyments,  as  it  has 
mine.  But  what  are  our  feelings,  compared  with 
the  pangs  which  rend  a  parent's  heart  ?  This  par 
ent  I  here  behold  inhumanly  stripped  of  the  best 
solace  of  her  declining  years  by  the  insnaring 
machinations  of  a  profligate  debauchee.  Not  only 
the  life,  but,  what  was  still  dearer,  the  reputation 
and  virtue,  of  the  unfortunate  Eliza  have  fallen 


LIFE    AND    LETTERS    OF    ELIZA    WHARTOX.    293 

victims  at  the  shrine  of  libertinism.  Detested  be 
the  epithet.  Let  it  henceforth  bear  its  true  signa 
ture,  and  candor  itself  shall  call  it  lust  and  brutality. 
Execrable  is  the  man,  however  arrayed  in  mag 
nificence,  crowned  with  wealth,  or  decorated  with 
the  external  graces  and  accomplishments  of  fash 
ionable  life,  who  shall  presume  to  display  them  at 
the  expense  of  virtue  and  innocence.  Sacred  name 
attended  with  real  blessings  —  blessings  too  useful 
and  important  to  be  trifled  away.  My  resentment 
at  the  base  arts  which  must  have  been  employed 
to  complete  the  seduction  of  Eliza  I  cannot  sup- 
pr^ess.  I  wish  them  to  be  exposed,  and  stamped 
with  universal  ignominy.  Nor  do  I  doubt  but  you 
will  join  with  me  in  execrating  the  measures  by 
which  we  have  been  robbed  of  so  valuable  a  friend, 
and  society  of  so  ornamental  a  member.  I  am,  &c., 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


LETTER    LXXII. 

To  MR.  CHARLES  DKIGHTON. 

HARTFORD. 

Confusion,  horror,  and  despair  are  the  portion 
of  your  wretched,  unhappy  friend.  O  Deighton, 
1  am  undone.  Misery  irremediable  is  my  future 


294  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OK   THE 

lot.  She  is  gone  ;  yes,  she  is  gone  forever.  The 
darling  of  my  soul,  the  centre  of  all  my  wishes 
and  enjoyments,  is  no  more.  Cruel  fate  has 
snatched  her  from  me,  and  she  is  irretrievably 
lost.  I  rave,  and  then  reflect ;  I  reflect,  and  then 
rave.  I  have  no  patience  to  bear  this  calamity, 
nor  power  to  remedy  it.  "Where  shall  I  fly  from 
the  upbraidings  of  my  mind,  which  accuse  me  as 
the  murderer  of  my  Eliza  ?  I  would  fly  to  death, 
and  seek  a  refuge  in  the  grave  ;  but  the  forebod 
ings  of  a  retribution  to  come  I  cannot  away  with. 
O  that  I  had  seen  her!  that  I  had  once  more 
asked  her  forgiveness !  But  even  that  privilege, 
that  consolation,  was  denied  me !  The  day  on 
which  I  meant  to  visit  her,  most  of  my  property 
was  attached,  and,  to  secure  the  rest,  I  was  obliged 
to  shut  my  doors  and  become  a  prisoner  in  my 
own  house.  -High  living,  and  old  debts  incurred 
by  extravagance,  had  reduced  the  fortune  of  my 
wife  to  very  little,  and  I  could  not  satisfy  the  clam 
orous  demands  of  my  creditors. 

I  would  have  given  millions,  had  I  possessed 
them,  to  have  been  at  liberty  to  see,  and  to  have 
had  the  power  to  preserve  Eliza  from  death.  But 
in  vain  was  my  anxiety ;  it  could  not  relieve,  it 
could  not  liberate  me.  When  I  first  heard  the 
dreadful  tidings  of  her  exit,  I  believe  I  acted  like 
a  madman  ;  indeed,  I  am  little  else  now. 


LIFE   AND    LETTERS   OF    ELIZA   WHARTON.   295 

I  have  compounded  with  my  creditors,  and  re 
signed  the  whole  of  rny  property.  Thus  that 
splendor  and  equipage,  to  secure  which  I  have 
sacrificed  a  virtuous  woman,  is  taken  from  me. 
That  poverty,  the  dread  of  which  prevented  my 
forming  an  honorable  connection  with  an  amiable 
and  accomplished  girl,  —  the  only  one  lever  loved, 

—  has  fallen  with  redoubled  vengeance  •  upon  my 
guilty  head,  and  I  must  become  a  vagabond  on 
the  earth. 

I  shall  fly  my  country  as  soon  as  possible.  I 
shall  go  from  every  object  which  reminds  me  of 
my  departed  Eliza ;  but  never,  never  shall  I  erad 
icate  from  my  bosom  the  idea  of  her  excellence, 
nor  the  painful  remembrance  of  the  injuries  I  have 
done  her.  Her  shade  will  perpetually  haunt  me  ; 
the  image  of  her  —  as  she  appeared  when  mount 
ing  the  carriage  which  conveyed  her  forever  from 
my  sight,  waving  her  hand  in  token  of  a  last  adieu 

—  will  always  be  present  to  rny  imagination  ;  the 
solemn    counsel  she    gave   me  before  we   parted, 
never  more  to  meet,  will  not  cease  to  resound  in 
my  ears. 

While  my  being  is  prolonged,  I  must  feel  the 
disgraceful  and  torturing  effects  of  my  guilt  in 
seducing  her.  How  madly  have  I  deprived  her 
of  happiness,  of  reputation,  of  life !  Her  friends, 


296  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

could  they  know  the  pangs  of  contrition  and  the 
horrors  of  conscience  which  attend  me,  would  be 
amply  revenged. 

It  is  said  she  quitted  the  world  with  composure 
and  peace.  Well  she  might.  She  had  not  that 
insupportable  weight  of  iniquity  which  sinks  me 
to  despair.  She  found  consolation  in  that  religion 
which  I  have  ridiculed  as  priestcraft  and  hypoc 
risy.  But,  whether  it  be  true  or  false,  would  to 
Heaven  I  could  now  enjoy  the  comforts  which  its 
votaries  evidently  feel. 

My  wife  has  left  me.  As  we  lived  together 
without  love,  we  parted  without  regret. 

Now,  Charles,  I  am  to  bid  you  a  long,  perhaps 
a  last  farewell.  Where  I  shall  roam  in  future,  I 
neither  know  nor  care.  I  shall  go  where  the  name 
of  Sanford  is  unknown,  and  his  person  and  sor 
rows  unnoticed. 

In  this  happy  clime  I  have  nothing  to  induce 
my  stay.  I  have  not  money  to  support  me  with 
my  profligate  companions,  nor  have  I  any  relish, 
at  present,  for  their  society.  By  the  virtuous  part 
of  the  community  I  am  shunned  as  the  pest  and 
bane  of  social  enjoyment.  In  short,  I  am  debarred 
from  every  kind  of  happiness.  If  I  look  back,  I 
recoil  with  horror  from  the  black  catalogue  of  vices 
which  have  stained  my  past  life,  and  reduced  me  t<p 


LIFE    AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA    WHARTON.   297 

indigence  and  contempt.  If  I  look  forward,  I 
shudder  at  the  prospects  which  my  foreboding 
mind  presents  to  view  both  in  this  and  a  coming 
world.  This  is  a  deplorable,  yet  just,  picture  of 
myself.  How  totally  the  reverse  of  what  I  once 
appeared ! 

Let  it  warn  you,  my  friend,  to  shun  the  danger 
ous  paths  which  I  have  trodden,  that  you  may 
never  be  involved  in  the  hopeless  ignominy  and 
wretchedness  of 

PETER  SANFORD. 


i 

LETTER    LXXIII. 

To   Miss  JULIA  GRANBY. 

BOSTON. 

A  melancholy  tale  have  you  unfolded,  my  dear 
Julia ;  and  tragic  indeed  is  the  concluding  scene. 

Is  she  then  gone  ?  gone  in  this  most  distressing 
manner  ?  Have  I  lost  my  once-loved  friend  ?  lost 
her  in  a  way  which  I  could  never  have  conceived 
to  be  possible  ? 

Our  days  of  childhood  were  spent  together  in 
the  same  pursuits,  in  the  same  amusements.  Our 
riper  years  increased  our  mutual  affection,  and  ma- 


298  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OR,    THE 

turer  judgment  most  firmly  cemented  our  friend 
ship.  Can  I,  then,  calmly  resign  her  to  so  severe 
a  fate  ?  Can  I  bear  the  idea  of  her  being  lost  to 
honor,  to  fame,  and  to  life  ?  No  ;  she  shall  still 
live  in  the  heart  of  her  faithful  Lucy,  whose  expe 
rience  of  her  numerous  virtues  and  engaging  qual 
ities  has  imprinted  her  image  too  deeply  on  the 
memory  to  be  obliterated.  However  she  may  have 
erred,  her  sincere  repentance  is  sufficient  to  restore 
her  to  charity. 

Your  letter  gave  me  the  first  information  of 
this  awful  event.  I  had  taken  a  short  excur 
sion  into  the  country,  where  I  had  not  seen  the 
papers,  or,  if  I  had,  paid  little  or  no  attention  to 
them.  By  your  directions  I  found  the  distressing 
narrative  of  her  exit.  The  poignancy  of  my  grief, 
and  the  unavailing  lamentations  which  the  intelli 
gence  excited,  need  no  delineation.  To  scenes  of 
this  nature  you  have  been  habituated  in  the  man 
sion  of  sorrow  where  you  reside. 

How  sincerely  I  sympathize  with  the  bereaved 
parent  of  the  dear,  deceased  Eliza,  I  can  feel,  but 
have  not  power  to  express.  Let  it  be  her  consola 
tion  that  her  child  is  at  rest.  The  resolution  which 
carried  this  deluded  wanderer  thus  far  from  her 
friends,  and  supported  her  through  her  various 


LIFE   AND   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHAUTOX.   299 

trials,  is  astonishing.  Happy  would  it  have  been 
had  she  exerted  an  equal  degree  of  fortitude  in  re 
pelling  the  first  attacks  upon  her  virtue.  But  she 
is  no  more,  and  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  ac- 
euse  or  reproach  her. 

Yet  in  what  language  shall  I  express  my  abhor 
rence  of  the  monster  whose  detestable  arts  have 
blasted  one  of  the  fairest  flowers  in  creation  ?  I 
leave  him  to  God  and  his  own  conscience.  Al 
ready  is  he  exposed  in  his  true  colors.  Vengeance 
already  begins  to  overtake  him.  His  sordid  mind 
must  now  suffer  the  deprivation  of  those  sensual 
gratifications  beyond  which  he  is  incapable  of  en 
joyment. 

Upon  your  reflecting  and  steady  mind,  my  dear 
Julia,  I  need  not  inculcate  the  lessons  which  may 
be  drawn  from  this  woe-fraught  tale;  but  for  the 
sake  of  rny  sex  in  general,  I  wish  it  engraved  upon 
every  heart,  that  virtue  alone,  independent  of  the 
trappings  of  wealth,  the  parade  of  equipage,  and 
the  adulation  of  gallantry,  can  secure  lasting  felici 
ty.  From  the  melancholy  story  of  Eliza  Wharton 
let  the  American  fair  learn  to  reject  with  disdain 
every  insinuation  derogatory  to  their  true  dignity 
and  honor.  Let  them  despise  and  forever  banish 
the  man  who  can  glory  in  the  seduction  of  inno- 


SCO  THE    COQUETTE  ;    OK,    THE 

cence  and  the  ruin  of  reputation.     To  associate  is 
to  approve ;  to  approve  is  to  be  betrayed. 
I  am,  &c., 

LUCY   SUMNER. 


LETTER    LXXIV. 

To   MRS.  M.  WHARTON. 

BOSTON. 

Dear  madam  :  We  have  paid  the  last  tribute  of 
respect  to  your  beloved  daughter.  The  day  after 
my  arrival,  Mrs.  Sumner  proposed  that  we  should 
visit  the  sad  spot  which  contains  the  remains  of 
our  once  amiable  friend.  "  The  grave  of  Eliza 
Wharton,"  said  she,  "  shall  not  be  unbedewed  by 
the  tears  of  friendship." 

Yesterday  we  went  accordingly,  and  were  much 
pleased  with  the  apparent  sincerity  of  the  people  in 
their  assurances  that  every  thing  in  their  power 
had  been  done  to  render  her  situation  comfortable. 
The  minutest  circumstances  were  faithfully  related ; 
and,  from  the  state  of  her  mind  in  her  last  hours,  I 
think  much  comfort  may  be  derived  to  her  afflicted 
friends. 

We  spent  a  mournful  hour  in  the  place  where 


LIFE   AXD   LETTERS   OF   ELIZA   WHARTOX.   301 

she  is  interred,  and  then  returned  to  the  inn,  while 
Mrs.  Sum  tier  gave  orders  for  a  decent  stone  to  be 
erected  over  her  grave,  with  the  following  inscrip 
tion  :  — 

THIS   HUMBLE  STONE, 
IN   MEMORY   OF 

ELIZA    W  HART  ON, 

IS   INSCRIBED   BY  HER  WEEPING   FRIENDS,   TO   WHOM  SHK 

ENDEARED   HERSELF 

BY  UNCOMMON  TENDERNESS   AND  AFFECTION. 
ENDOWED   WITH   SUPERIOR  ACQUIREMENTS,   SHE  WAS   STILL  MORE 

DISTINGUISHED 

BY   HUMILITY  AND   BENEVOLENCE. 
1ET   CANDOR  THROW   A  VEIL   OVER  HER  FRAILTIES,  FOR   GREAT  WAS 

HER  CHARITY  TO   OTHERS. 
SHE   SUSTAINED  THE   LAST   PAINFUL   SCENE 

FAR  FROM   EVERY  FRIEND, 
AND  EXHIBITED  AN  EXAMPLE   OF  CALM   RESIGNATION. 

HER  DEPARTURE   WAS   ON  THE  25TH   DAY   OF  JULY,   A.   D.   ,   IN 

THE  37TH  YEAR  OF   HER  AGE  ; 
AND  THE  TEARS   OF   STRANGERS   WATERED   HER  GRAVE. 

I  hope,  madam,  that  you  will  derive  satisfaction 
from  these  exertions  of  friendship,  and  that,  united 
to  the  many  other  sources  of  consolation  with 


302  THE   COQUETTE;   OR,   THE 

which  you  are  furnished,  they  may  alleviate  your 
grief,  and,  while  they  leave  the  pleasing  remem 
brance  of  her  virtues,  add  the  supporting  persua 
sion  that  your  Eliza  is  happy. 
I  am,  &c., 

JULIA  GRANBY. 


THE    END. 


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I  IFF  AND  LETTERS  OF  EUZA 


